 | Forest leaves |  |
THE SPIRIT'S LYRE.
Where pure and fresh life's fountain springs
Within the bosom's secret place,
The forming hand of nature strings
The lyre of human bliss.
Within the bosom's secret place,
The forming hand of nature strings
The lyre of human bliss.
It has a chord for every thrill
Of nature's melting sympathies,
And every tone has power to fill
The soul with ecstasies.
Of nature's melting sympathies,
And every tone has power to fill
The soul with ecstasies.
Oh, could its chorus once be full,
And not one chord untun'd or riven,
Then in its hymn, the human soul
Would prove the bliss of heaven.
And not one chord untun'd or riven,
Then in its hymn, the human soul
Would prove the bliss of heaven.
But Fate's stern hand is on the lyre
E'er nature wakes the earliest lay,
And in her grasp, wire after wire,
Snaps with a pang away.
E'er nature wakes the earliest lay,
And in her grasp, wire after wire,
Snaps with a pang away.
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The spirit thus can never know
The full high melody of bliss;
A few faint breathings, wild and low,
Are all its happiness.
The full high melody of bliss;
A few faint breathings, wild and low,
Are all its happiness.
| Forest leaves | |