The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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WAKENING OF THE POET'S HARP. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
WAKENING OF THE POET'S HARP.
With harmony of numbers that smoothly floats along,
Like the softest harp of nature with the winds its strings among;
Then stronger in his measure and bolder in his rhyme,
Unfolding all his treasure like the evening's swelling chime.
Like the softest harp of nature with the winds its strings among;
Then stronger in his measure and bolder in his rhyme,
Unfolding all his treasure like the evening's swelling chime.
He wakens then the echo as in grander verse he sings,
And louder and still louder he strikes the quivering strings;
His rhyme is growing bolder, as he cheerily strikes the lyre;
His muse he cannot hold her, she mounts on wings of fire.
And louder and still louder he strikes the quivering strings;
His rhyme is growing bolder, as he cheerily strikes the lyre;
His muse he cannot hold her, she mounts on wings of fire.
She leaves all earthly grandeur and o'er the hills she soars—
What cares he then for slander when every star adores:
Here, singing strains unborrowed, the poet's verse can claim
A wreath that's everlasting, of never-dying fame.
What cares he then for slander when every star adores:
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A wreath that's everlasting, of never-dying fame.
In his own path of glory he sweetly chants along,
And every son of genius can comprehend his song;
Beyond the reach of slander he sings in loftier strains,
His verse has greater grandeur as higher heights he gains:
And every son of genius can comprehend his song;
Beyond the reach of slander he sings in loftier strains,
His verse has greater grandeur as higher heights he gains:
Till lost in the creation—surrounded by its gems—
He sees the heaven of heavens bedeck'd with diadems;
And though sometimes in sorrow despised and turned to shame,
He wins his wreath of glory, composed of endless fame.
He sees the heaven of heavens bedeck'd with diadems;
And though sometimes in sorrow despised and turned to shame,
He wins his wreath of glory, composed of endless fame.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |