 | Valentine Verses |  |
259
THE FINALE.
How grand the orchestra, where all in tune,
Play to the end harmonious strain of love,
Where Perfect Leader, with a grace triune
Stands to direct on eminence above!
How sweetly chaunt the choral joyful throng,
In praise of harmony the heavenly song.
Play to the end harmonious strain of love,
Where Perfect Leader, with a grace triune
Stands to direct on eminence above!
How sweetly chaunt the choral joyful throng,
In praise of harmony the heavenly song.
But we on earth contented must remain,
To play at present an imperfect strain.
Think'st thou the talents wisdom has bestowed,
Become not perfect in the blest abode?
Who speaks of nature? Will the Poet's line
On earth confin'd, when wisdom comes to shine,
Have less and less of inspiration's tongue,
Or, he be called to sing a simpler song?
O no! the spirit panting in his form,
Tells him the truth,—he is at best a worm.
E'en now, when music wakens in his mind,
The diff'rent feelings of a state confin'd;
In ev'ry chord some sympathy is found,
Responsive movements in his bosom bound.
The grandest overture can call his soul
From selfish feeling, and expand the whole;
The whole of spirit, generous and brave,
That loves to feel how providence can save.
How oft, when mortals drawing forth the tone
Of numbered instruments which seem but one,
The strictest harmony in concert made,
Where none digress, where none their parts evade.
How oft his soul aspiring to the High,
Has dwelt on love, on thought of Majesty.
Methink me now, if Christian's could but play
In perfect friendship through the present day,
How truly faithful would their wishes blend,
And love bring on the promised, sought-for end.
A Grand Finale! glorious in peace!
Will make in triumph every discord cease,
And mortals changing from a war-like strain,
Arise to harmony and live again.
To play at present an imperfect strain.
Think'st thou the talents wisdom has bestowed,
Become not perfect in the blest abode?
Who speaks of nature? Will the Poet's line
On earth confin'd, when wisdom comes to shine,
Have less and less of inspiration's tongue,
Or, he be called to sing a simpler song?
260
Tells him the truth,—he is at best a worm.
E'en now, when music wakens in his mind,
The diff'rent feelings of a state confin'd;
In ev'ry chord some sympathy is found,
Responsive movements in his bosom bound.
The grandest overture can call his soul
From selfish feeling, and expand the whole;
The whole of spirit, generous and brave,
That loves to feel how providence can save.
How oft, when mortals drawing forth the tone
Of numbered instruments which seem but one,
The strictest harmony in concert made,
Where none digress, where none their parts evade.
How oft his soul aspiring to the High,
Has dwelt on love, on thought of Majesty.
Methink me now, if Christian's could but play
In perfect friendship through the present day,
How truly faithful would their wishes blend,
And love bring on the promised, sought-for end.
A Grand Finale! glorious in peace!
Will make in triumph every discord cease,
And mortals changing from a war-like strain,
Arise to harmony and live again.
But hold my heart. Here something must be said
For imperfections, both to man and maid.
'Tis true that harmony is formed of love;
'Tis true that virtue is from God above;
'Tis true that truth should ever be preserv'd;
'Tis true from duty we should none have swerv'd;
But all have fail'd; the very best of all,
Have something to remember, to recall,
Something to wish they never had begun,
Something to say they wish they had not done.
Who plays a passage even to the letter,
And finds not some day he can play it better?
Who prints a book, and when the type is stampt,
Finds not in parts his genius is crampt?
Who sees not errors in himself, must be
The farthest off the truth and piety.
But imperfection is in ev'ry plan,
In ev'ry work, in ev'ry task of man;
I'll show ye some in ev'ry book I read,
Save that of Faith, the Christian's Holy Creed.
The closest reasoner, not always terse,
Is oft obscure, especially in verse;
The man of theory will one day find,
A false position pictured on his mind;
The critic's judgment often may be found,
Too like his flesh, conceited and unsound.
But this I know, wherever crror is,
The best excuse and argument is this:
Be not too proud, in wisdom feel a zest,
And fear not christian-like to do thy best;
Hope to improve, and mind what others say,
Still use thy judgment and pursue thy way;
In time thou'lt find conviction will set forth,
That which is wrong, and that possessing worth.
Forgive my errors;—take the line of friend,—
I wish thee happy even to thine end.
Imperfect work, amusement of the year,
Speak thou the sentiments of one sincere,—
Succeed or not, or please, or rouse thee ill,
Some will caress thee! yea, I know they will,—
Say but one word, one feeling humbly tell
In charity to all,—O say, farewell!
For imperfections, both to man and maid.
261
'Tis true that virtue is from God above;
'Tis true that truth should ever be preserv'd;
'Tis true from duty we should none have swerv'd;
But all have fail'd; the very best of all,
Have something to remember, to recall,
Something to wish they never had begun,
Something to say they wish they had not done.
Who plays a passage even to the letter,
And finds not some day he can play it better?
Who prints a book, and when the type is stampt,
Finds not in parts his genius is crampt?
Who sees not errors in himself, must be
The farthest off the truth and piety.
But imperfection is in ev'ry plan,
In ev'ry work, in ev'ry task of man;
I'll show ye some in ev'ry book I read,
Save that of Faith, the Christian's Holy Creed.
The closest reasoner, not always terse,
Is oft obscure, especially in verse;
The man of theory will one day find,
A false position pictured on his mind;
The critic's judgment often may be found,
Too like his flesh, conceited and unsound.
But this I know, wherever crror is,
The best excuse and argument is this:
262
And fear not christian-like to do thy best;
Hope to improve, and mind what others say,
Still use thy judgment and pursue thy way;
In time thou'lt find conviction will set forth,
That which is wrong, and that possessing worth.
Forgive my errors;—take the line of friend,—
I wish thee happy even to thine end.
Imperfect work, amusement of the year,
Speak thou the sentiments of one sincere,—
Succeed or not, or please, or rouse thee ill,
Some will caress thee! yea, I know they will,—
Say but one word, one feeling humbly tell
In charity to all,—O say, farewell!
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