 | Poems |  |
ON READING BEATTIE'S “MINSTREL.”
Beattie! 'twas thine to charm the feeling heart;
To still the tumult of the troubled soul;
To thee did gracious heaven the power impart
To point the eye that read the sceptic's scroll,
To the bright pages which are Zion's goal.
To free the mind, distracted sore and riven,
From scepticism's impious control,
No more by earth's phosphoric glare misgiven,
To seek beyond the grave eternal home in heaven.
To still the tumult of the troubled soul;
To thee did gracious heaven the power impart
To point the eye that read the sceptic's scroll,
To the bright pages which are Zion's goal.
To free the mind, distracted sore and riven,
From scepticism's impious control,
No more by earth's phosphoric glare misgiven,
To seek beyond the grave eternal home in heaven.
What lofty power incited thee to sing?
What hand divine attuned thy warbling lyre?
Did instinct set thee to imagining
The living numbers of the sainted choir?
Ah, like their strains thine own may never tire!
If while on earth transporting were thy lays,
What holy rapture must thee now inspire,
Since thou art called from us on high to raise
Thy voice forevermore to the Almighty's praise!
What hand divine attuned thy warbling lyre?
Did instinct set thee to imagining
The living numbers of the sainted choir?
Ah, like their strains thine own may never tire!
If while on earth transporting were thy lays,
What holy rapture must thee now inspire,
Since thou art called from us on high to raise
Thy voice forevermore to the Almighty's praise!
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