The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark Including the Ollapodiana Papers, the Spirit Of Life, and a selection from his various prose and poetical writings |
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[Ask of the ocean-waves that burst] |
 | The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark |  |
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[Ask of the ocean-waves that burst]
Ask of the ocean-waves that burst
In music on the strand,
Whose murmurs load the scented breeze
That fans the Summer land;
Why is their harmony abroad,
Their cadence in the sky
That glitters with the smile of God
In mystery on high?
In music on the strand,
Whose murmurs load the scented breeze
That fans the Summer land;
Why is their harmony abroad,
Their cadence in the sky
That glitters with the smile of God
In mystery on high?
Question the cataract's boiling tide,
Down stooping from above,
Why its proud billows, far and wide
In stormy thunders move?
It is that in their hollow voice
A tone of praise is given,
Which bids the fainting heart rejoice,
And trust THE MIGHT of Heaven?
Down stooping from above,
Why its proud billows, far and wide
In stormy thunders move?
It is that in their hollow voice
A tone of praise is given,
Which bids the fainting heart rejoice,
And trust THE MIGHT of Heaven?
And ask the tribes whose matin song
Melts on the dewy air,
Why, like a stream that steals along,
Flow forth their praises there?
Why, when the veil of Eve comes down,
With all its starry hours,
The night-bird's melancholy lay
Rings from her solemn bowers?
Melts on the dewy air,
Why, like a stream that steals along,
Flow forth their praises there?
Why, when the veil of Eve comes down,
With all its starry hours,
The night-bird's melancholy lay
Rings from her solemn bowers?
It is some might of love within,
Some impulse from on high,
That bids their matin-song begin,
Or fills the evening sky
With gentle echoes all its own;
With sounds, that on the ear
Fall, like the voice of kindred gone,
Cut off in Youth's career!
Some impulse from on high,
That bids their matin-song begin,
Or fills the evening sky
With gentle echoes all its own;
With sounds, that on the ear
Fall, like the voice of kindred gone,
Cut off in Youth's career!
Ask of the gales that sweep abroad,
When Sunset's fiery wall
Is crowned with many a painted cloud,
A gorgeous coronal;
Ask why their wings are trembling then
O'er Nature's sounding lyre,
While the far occidental hills
Are bathed in golden fire?
When Sunset's fiery wall
Is crowned with many a painted cloud,
A gorgeous coronal;
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O'er Nature's sounding lyre,
While the far occidental hills
Are bathed in golden fire?
Oh! shall the wide world raise the song
Of peace, and joy, and love,
And shall man's heart not bid his tongue
In voiceful praises move?
Shall the old forest and the wave,
When summon'd by the breeze,
Yield a sweet flow of solemn praise,
And man have less than these?
Of peace, and joy, and love,
And shall man's heart not bid his tongue
In voiceful praises move?
Shall the old forest and the wave,
When summon'd by the breeze,
Yield a sweet flow of solemn praise,
And man have less than these?
| The literary remains of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | |