 | Sacra Poesis |  |
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Sacred Poetry.
O Thou, that breathest in archangel's songs;
And from the golden harps of Seraphim
Boundest in welling tides of perfect praise!
Thou that art beaming from the dimpled cheek
Of the young cherub, as new-born he tries
His downy wings, and lisps in infant tones
Of harmony and love, praise to his God!
Thou that didst joy when young creation first
Beauteous and fresh reflected back the smile
Of her approving Maker,—shouting then
From world to world throughout infinity
That echoed back the triumph of thy song,
“Hail, smiling birth-day of a sister orb;”—
Thou, that hast swept, in holy minstrelsy
Of rapture and devotion, David's lyre,
And breath'd upon Isaiah's harp,—and still
Hoverest with chief delight o'er hymns of praise
And sacred melodies of joy to Him
Who blesses man with persevering love,
—Thus would I woo thee, gentle poesy!
And from the golden harps of Seraphim
Boundest in welling tides of perfect praise!
Thou that art beaming from the dimpled cheek
Of the young cherub, as new-born he tries
His downy wings, and lisps in infant tones
Of harmony and love, praise to his God!
Thou that didst joy when young creation first
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Of her approving Maker,—shouting then
From world to world throughout infinity
That echoed back the triumph of thy song,
“Hail, smiling birth-day of a sister orb;”—
Thou, that hast swept, in holy minstrelsy
Of rapture and devotion, David's lyre,
And breath'd upon Isaiah's harp,—and still
Hoverest with chief delight o'er hymns of praise
And sacred melodies of joy to Him
Who blesses man with persevering love,
—Thus would I woo thee, gentle poesy!
How is thy name abus'd!—how have they torn
From thee thy fairest robe, in which thou lovest
To win the else unheeding soul to truth
In strains of piety and melody:
O how has enmity with spiteful haste
Striven hard to prove religion knew not joy,
But was too sullen to be sweet in song,
Since scarce a Poet ever tun'd her praise;
And has exulted o'er the lusty strains
Of bards, who prostitute the heavenly gift
To paint the miry robe of vice with hues
That fain would glitter as the seraph's wing!
Aye, gentle, much enduring Poesy,
Sister to holy love, that weavest in
Thy raven tresses with her golden hair,
As on the gale of inspiration flowing
They meet unconsciously;—thou, hand in hand
Bearest with her the bitter frown of Hate,
(For, aiming nobly at Jehovah's praise,
Hate bears his thunder-riven brow against thee,—)
Thou smilest when she smiles,—weep'st when she weeps,
And as the store-cells of the honey-bee
Pour to the noon-day sun their liquid sweets,
So thou thy nectar'd eloquence dost pour,
Most copious of expression and idea
When warmest in the glow of charity.
From thee thy fairest robe, in which thou lovest
To win the else unheeding soul to truth
In strains of piety and melody:
O how has enmity with spiteful haste
Striven hard to prove religion knew not joy,
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Since scarce a Poet ever tun'd her praise;
And has exulted o'er the lusty strains
Of bards, who prostitute the heavenly gift
To paint the miry robe of vice with hues
That fain would glitter as the seraph's wing!
Aye, gentle, much enduring Poesy,
Sister to holy love, that weavest in
Thy raven tresses with her golden hair,
As on the gale of inspiration flowing
They meet unconsciously;—thou, hand in hand
Bearest with her the bitter frown of Hate,
(For, aiming nobly at Jehovah's praise,
Hate bears his thunder-riven brow against thee,—)
Thou smilest when she smiles,—weep'st when she weeps,
And as the store-cells of the honey-bee
Pour to the noon-day sun their liquid sweets,
So thou thy nectar'd eloquence dost pour,
Most copious of expression and idea
When warmest in the glow of charity.
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