 | My Sonnets |  |
SONG
SUGGESTED BY THE OPENING OF THE NEW BUILDING OF THE GREENWICH SOCIETY FOR THE DIFFUSION OF USEFUL KNOWLEDGE.
“Let there be Light,” the Eternal said;
Night trembling heard,—the darkness fled,—
Earth rolled in light along.
Each leafy wood—each flowery plain—
The murmuring winds—the dashing main,
Poured forth their joy in song.
Then burst forth from grassy hill,
From each bubbling fount and rill,
And mountain-shadowed vale,
Earth's thousand voices, blending
In chorus never ending,
The new-born day to hail.
Night trembling heard,—the darkness fled,—
Earth rolled in light along.
Each leafy wood—each flowery plain—
The murmuring winds—the dashing main,
Poured forth their joy in song.
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From each bubbling fount and rill,
And mountain-shadowed vale,
Earth's thousand voices, blending
In chorus never ending,
The new-born day to hail.
Light comes! rejoice! the mists that blind
Man to the powers of his own mind
Are rolling fast away;
Swift-coming years shall see earth trod
By beings nearer to their God
Than e'er were born of clay.
Sing—the night of mind is past,
Sing—the morning comes at last,
Sing—with choral song,
Joyous hail the breaking dawn,
High, to greet the coming morn,
Toss the strain along.
Man to the powers of his own mind
Are rolling fast away;
Swift-coming years shall see earth trod
By beings nearer to their God
Than e'er were born of clay.
Sing—the night of mind is past,
Sing—the morning comes at last,
Sing—with choral song,
Joyous hail the breaking dawn,
High, to greet the coming morn,
Toss the strain along.
April 23rd, 1842.
With mad delight,
And meteor flight,
The earth flashes forth from the darkness of night;
Cleaving its way
Through the ocean of day,
It bathes in the light, and it bounds away;
As it glides along,
A mingling throng
Of unnumbered sounds zone its form with song,
The dash of its seas,
The voice of its trees,
The soft sweet laugh of the wandering breeze,
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The deep, low, groans
That dying storms breathe,—the thunder-loud tones
Of the sea-lashed shore,
The eternal roar
Of mist-robed cataracts, flinging them o'er
Earthquake-cleft mountains,
The bubbling of fountains,
The sound of the dance of soft, pattering, rains;
In the air blending,
Sounds never-ending,
Weaving earth's song, are for ever ascending;
And, whirling along,
Bright sisters, the throng
Of worlds back are tossing, rejoicing, the song.
March 15th, 1842.
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