Lyrics of the heart With other poems. By Alaric A. Watts. With forty-one engravings on steel |
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A REMONSTRANCE.
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 | Lyrics of the heart |  |
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A REMONSTRANCE.
TO A FRIEND WHO COMPLAINED TO THE AUTHOR THAT HE WAS “ALL ALONE!”
Oh! say not thou art all alone
Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth;—
Sigh not o'er joys for ever flown,—
The vacant chair, the silent hearth:
Why should the world's unholy mirth
Upon thy quiet dreams intrude,
To scare those shapes of heavenly birth,
That people oft thy solitude!
Upon this wide, cold-hearted earth;—
Sigh not o'er joys for ever flown,—
The vacant chair, the silent hearth:
Why should the world's unholy mirth
Upon thy quiet dreams intrude,
To scare those shapes of heavenly birth,
That people oft thy solitude!
Though many a fervent hope of youth
Hath passed, and scarcely left a trace;
Though earth-born love, its tears and truth,
No longer in thy heart have place;
Nor time, nor grief can e'er efface
The brighter hopes that now are thine;
The fadeless love, all-pitying grace,
That makes thy darkest hours divine!
Hath passed, and scarcely left a trace;
Though earth-born love, its tears and truth,
No longer in thy heart have place;
Nor time, nor grief can e'er efface
The brighter hopes that now are thine;
The fadeless love, all-pitying grace,
That makes thy darkest hours divine!
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Not all alone; for thou canst hold
Communion sweet with saint and sage;
And gather gems, of price untold,
From many a consecrated page:
Youth's dreams, the golden lights of age,
The poet's lore,—are still thine own;
Then, while such themes thy thoughts engage,
Oh! how canst thou be all alone!
Communion sweet with saint and sage;
And gather gems, of price untold,
From many a consecrated page:
Youth's dreams, the golden lights of age,
The poet's lore,—are still thine own;
Then, while such themes thy thoughts engage,
Oh! how canst thou be all alone!
Not all alone; the lark's rich note,
As mounting up to heaven, she sings;
The thousand silvery sounds that float
Above, below, on morning's wings;
The softer murmurs twilight brings,—
The cricket's chirp, cicada's glee;
All earth, that lyre of myriad strings,
Is jubilant with life for thee!
As mounting up to heaven, she sings;
The thousand silvery sounds that float
Above, below, on morning's wings;
The softer murmurs twilight brings,—
The cricket's chirp, cicada's glee;
All earth, that lyre of myriad strings,
Is jubilant with life for thee!
Not all alone; the whispering trees,
The rippling brook, the starry sky,
Have each peculiar harmonies
To soothe, subdue, and sanctify:
The low, sweet breath of evening's sigh,
For thee hath oft a friendly tone,
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high,
And say—thou art not all alone!
The rippling brook, the starry sky,
Have each peculiar harmonies
To soothe, subdue, and sanctify:
The low, sweet breath of evening's sigh,
For thee hath oft a friendly tone,
To lift thy grateful thoughts on high,
And say—thou art not all alone!
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Not all alone; a watchful Eye,
That notes the wandering sparrow's fall,
A saving Hand is ever nigh,
A gracious Power attends thy call;—
When sadness holds the heart in thrall,
Oft is His tenderest mercy shewn;
Seek then the balm vouchsafed to all,
And thou canst never be alone!
That notes the wandering sparrow's fall,
A saving Hand is ever nigh,
A gracious Power attends thy call;—
When sadness holds the heart in thrall,
Oft is His tenderest mercy shewn;
Seek then the balm vouchsafed to all,
And thou canst never be alone!
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