 | Poems |  |
69
THE VOICE OF PRAISE.
There is a voice of magic power,
To charm the old, delight the young—
In lordly hall, in rustic bower,
In every clime, in every tongue,
Howe'er its sweet vibration rung,
In whispers low, in poet's lays,
There lives not one who has not hung,
Enraptur'd on the voice of praise.
To charm the old, delight the young—
In lordly hall, in rustic bower,
In every clime, in every tongue,
Howe'er its sweet vibration rung,
In whispers low, in poet's lays,
There lives not one who has not hung,
Enraptur'd on the voice of praise.
70
The timid child, at that soft voice,
Lifts for a moment's space the eye;
It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,
And stays the step prepar'd to fly:
'Tis pleasure breathes that short quick sigh,
And flushes o'er that rosy face;
Whilst shame and infant modesty
Shrink back with hesitating grace.
Lifts for a moment's space the eye;
It bids the fluttering heart rejoice,
And stays the step prepar'd to fly:
'Tis pleasure breathes that short quick sigh,
And flushes o'er that rosy face;
Whilst shame and infant modesty
Shrink back with hesitating grace.
The lovely Maiden's dimpled cheek,
At that sweet voice still deeper glows;
Her quivering lips in vain would seek,
To hide the bliss her eyes disclose;
The charm her sweet confusion shows,
Oft springs from some low broken word;
O praise! to her how sweetly flows
Thine accent from the lov'd one heard!
At that sweet voice still deeper glows;
Her quivering lips in vain would seek,
To hide the bliss her eyes disclose;
The charm her sweet confusion shows,
Oft springs from some low broken word;
O praise! to her how sweetly flows
Thine accent from the lov'd one heard!
71
The Hero, when a People's voice
Proclaims their idol victor near,
Feels he not then his soul rejoice,
Their shouts of love, of praise to hear?
Yes! fame to generous minds is dear—
It pierces to their inmost core;
He weeps, who never shed a tear,
He trembles, who ne'er shook before.
Proclaims their idol victor near,
Feels he not then his soul rejoice,
Their shouts of love, of praise to hear?
Yes! fame to generous minds is dear—
It pierces to their inmost core;
He weeps, who never shed a tear,
He trembles, who ne'er shook before.
The Poet too—Ah well I deem,
Small is the need the tale to tell;
Who knows not that his thought, his dream,
On thee at noon, at midnight dwell?
Who knows not that thy magic spell
Can charm his every care away;
In memory cheer his gloomy cell,
In hope can lend a deathless day.
Small is the need the tale to tell;
Who knows not that his thought, his dream,
On thee at noon, at midnight dwell?
Who knows not that thy magic spell
Can charm his every care away;
In memory cheer his gloomy cell,
In hope can lend a deathless day.
72
'Tis sweet to watch affection's eye,
To mark the tear with love replete,
To feel the softly breathing sigh,
When friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But oh! a thousand times more sweet,
The praise of those we love to hear!
Like balmy showers in summer heat,
It falls upon the greedy ear.
To mark the tear with love replete,
To feel the softly breathing sigh,
When friendship's lips the tones repeat;
But oh! a thousand times more sweet,
The praise of those we love to hear!
Like balmy showers in summer heat,
It falls upon the greedy ear.
The lover lulls his rankling wound,
By hanging on his fair one's name;
The mother listens for the sound
Of her young warrior's growing fame;
Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame,
Of her soul's wedded partner riven;
Who cherishes the hallowed flame,
Parted on earth to meet in heaven!
By hanging on his fair one's name;
The mother listens for the sound
Of her young warrior's growing fame;
Thy voice can soothe the mourning dame,
Of her soul's wedded partner riven;
Who cherishes the hallowed flame,
Parted on earth to meet in heaven!
73
That voice can quiet passion's mood,
Can humble merit raise on high,
And from the wise and from the good
It breathes of immortality;
There is a lip, there is an eye,
Where most I love to see it shine,
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh—
My mother, need I say 'tis thine!
Can humble merit raise on high,
And from the wise and from the good
It breathes of immortality;
There is a lip, there is an eye,
Where most I love to see it shine,
To hear it speak, to feel it sigh—
My mother, need I say 'tis thine!
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