 | The Western home |  |
162
LISTEN.
Wilt be a listener?—not to tramp and shriek
Of the great iron steed that roams the world,
Nor to the jingle of the envied gold
That rules it,—these thou needst must hear perforce,
But wilt thou list to cadences that dwell
In hermit places and in noiseless hearts?
Of the great iron steed that roams the world,
Nor to the jingle of the envied gold
That rules it,—these thou needst must hear perforce,
But wilt thou list to cadences that dwell
In hermit places and in noiseless hearts?
Nature hath secret lore for those who lean
Upon her breast, with leisure in their soul
To hear her voice. Birdlings and blossoms speak
Words understood by all, but unto him
Who puts the clamor of the crowd aside,
Weeds, and the rudest rocks give utterance
To melody and truth. Yea, the wide earth
Unfolds itself to his inquiring glance,
And to its humblest agents lends a voice
Of wisdom. Even the feeblest wave that breaks,
Casting the frailest shell upon the shore,
Hath pearls for him. He sees the spoonlike leaf
That thrusts itself from out the tropic plant,
Catch a bright rain-drop to make glad its root,
And win the mother-blessing. The pale flower
Braving the Alpine cliff, doth tell his soul
Of the kind angel that did nourish it.
Lo! occult Science, with her midnight lamp,
Demands the silence of a listening mind,
Refusing to be wooed by those who pour
Love songs to fancy, and shun solitude.
Inklings and guessings will not do for her,
My gay young student. She demandeth facts
Well followed out, and toils that give the mind
Sinew and muscle. From the mount she comes
Like Moses, with strange brightness on his face,
And in his hand the tablets of the skies,
Graven on stone, which in his wrath he brake,
To find a dancing people mad with mirth
Before their molten calf, who should have knelt
In awe-struck silence of humility,
To read the law by God's own finger traced.
Upon her breast, with leisure in their soul
To hear her voice. Birdlings and blossoms speak
Words understood by all, but unto him
Who puts the clamor of the crowd aside,
Weeds, and the rudest rocks give utterance
To melody and truth. Yea, the wide earth
Unfolds itself to his inquiring glance,
And to its humblest agents lends a voice
Of wisdom. Even the feeblest wave that breaks,
Casting the frailest shell upon the shore,
163
That thrusts itself from out the tropic plant,
Catch a bright rain-drop to make glad its root,
And win the mother-blessing. The pale flower
Braving the Alpine cliff, doth tell his soul
Of the kind angel that did nourish it.
Lo! occult Science, with her midnight lamp,
Demands the silence of a listening mind,
Refusing to be wooed by those who pour
Love songs to fancy, and shun solitude.
Inklings and guessings will not do for her,
My gay young student. She demandeth facts
Well followed out, and toils that give the mind
Sinew and muscle. From the mount she comes
Like Moses, with strange brightness on his face,
And in his hand the tablets of the skies,
Graven on stone, which in his wrath he brake,
To find a dancing people mad with mirth
Before their molten calf, who should have knelt
In awe-struck silence of humility,
To read the law by God's own finger traced.
Wilt listen to the heart? It hath a sigh
That the world heeds not, an inwoven mesh
Of hidden harp-strings. If thou'lt hold thy breath,
And with a meek and noiseless footstep, glide
Down the sad pathways of humanity,
Then shalt thou hear, from every passing breeze,
The sigh of souls that have no comforter,
Soft, echoed joys, as from a grass-bird's nest,
And broken strains of sublunary hope,
Till feeling in thyself the quickening tide
Of sympathy for all whom God hath made,
Thou lovest the Hand that rules these harmonies.
That the world heeds not, an inwoven mesh
Of hidden harp-strings. If thou'lt hold thy breath,
And with a meek and noiseless footstep, glide
164
Then shalt thou hear, from every passing breeze,
The sigh of souls that have no comforter,
Soft, echoed joys, as from a grass-bird's nest,
And broken strains of sublunary hope,
Till feeling in thyself the quickening tide
Of sympathy for all whom God hath made,
Thou lovest the Hand that rules these harmonies.
So listen, that the monotone of self
May die away, and with Creation's song,
Of many parts, thine own sweet praise ascend,
Until thou join the harpers round the throne.
May die away, and with Creation's song,
Of many parts, thine own sweet praise ascend,
Until thou join the harpers round the throne.
| The Western home | |