The forest minstrel :: :: University of Virginia Library

My heart was breaking then—but the strong Soul
Put bonds upon the trembler, and stood up
Shaming its anguish with a scornful smile,
And proudly spurning Sorrow's tearful cup.

Weak one! she cried, wilt thou be so subdued?
And bend abjectly thus to gilded Pride?
Hast thou no wealth or worth in thy deep mines,
That thou shouldst faint, this tinsel god beside?

Go down, and from thy burning depths bring up
The native melodies that nestle there;
Set those wild prisoners free, and let them spread
Their vocal pinions to the native air.

Ay—send the timid creatures out, to brave
The winds that heave and plume the surging waste
Of this world's deluge, where the Dove of heaven
Has sought, and socks in vain, a place of rest.

And some amongst the number will return
With Trophies of green leaves from living trees,
Whose glorious heads, with never-fading wreaths
O'ertop the foam-crests of the billowy seas.

And each such Trophy shall be unto thee
More precious than Golconda's richest gem,
And o'er thy brow shall shed a purer light
Than empires' most resplendent diadem.

And it shall dim the shine of yellow gold,
As day's broad glory hides the feeble star;
And thy name written on each radiant leaf,
Shall down time's shadowy valley flash afar.

Ah! thou shalt stand before the scorner then,
In that effulgent light; and he shall own
The majesty of the immortal wreath
By thy high heart and dauntless spirit won.

Then he shall feel how worthless and how base
Appear the restless treasures of the mine,
Beside those living gems, which shall endure
To distant ages—and be always thine.

My heart responded to that spirit voice,
And sent its timid angels, one by one,
Out o'er the world's cold billow, list'ning long
To each wild echo of their native tone.

My heart grew faint with watching, day by day,
For the returning of the mission'd birds,
While on the calm of cold indifference came
Reproachful whisperings and derisive words.

O there were deep and wringing agonies—
Regret, and bitterness, and burning tears,
Yet still I hoped—and lo! my wandering doves
Came home triumphant after many years.

And then I turned, to dazzle with my gems
The eyes that once had scorned me. Holy heaven!
Those eyes are dark and soulless,—Ah! 'tis true
The heart is ruined, and the spirit riven.

The haughty soul is quenched; and in the halls
Where intellect sat, proud in godlike might,
The gibbering phantoms of insanity
Hold hideous revel in eternal night.

And where is now my triumph? Ah, Lord God!
For what ignoble ends we waste our life,
And thy most precious gifts, when human pride
And human passions urge us to the strife!

When gems that should be consecrate to Thee
Are vainly offered at a mortal shrine,
Till the poor idols, crumbling back to dust,
Mock the weak faith which fancied it divine;

And falls like charnel-dust, so cold and foul
Upon the heart that madly worshipped there,
And lies above its beauty and its hopes,
The black corroding ashes of despair.

O heavenly Father! may I now presume
To lay my worthless Trophies on Thy shrine?
Behold! I cast them at Thine altar's foot,
And my heart with them.—Father! make them Thine!