The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery Collected and Revised by the Author |
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BALLAD-SINGER. |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery |  |
600
BALLAD-SINGER.
(1829.)
“As if the streets were consecrated ground,
The city one vast temple—dedicate
To mutual respect in thought and deed.”
Wordsworth.
The city one vast temple—dedicate
To mutual respect in thought and deed.”
Wordsworth.
The dewy spirit of a summer-rain
Falls not with fresher magic on the flower
Than flows sweet music through the soul of man:
In melody the heavens were hung; the Sea
Weaves music when she rolls her full-voiced waves:
The cloud-born Thunders sound an organ-peal;
And every breeze hath music in its breath!
What, wonder, then, while Nature hymns around,
That music is a sympathy to souls,
The power of exquisite delight? From lips
Of beauty, like aroma from the mind
Exhaling forth; or in the hoary aisle
Of dim Cathedrals dying slow away;
Or in some dream-built palace of the night,
Where angel-whispers make the spirit glow,
How sweet is Music!—with the Light twin-born.
Falls not with fresher magic on the flower
Than flows sweet music through the soul of man:
In melody the heavens were hung; the Sea
Weaves music when she rolls her full-voiced waves:
The cloud-born Thunders sound an organ-peal;
And every breeze hath music in its breath!
What, wonder, then, while Nature hymns around,
That music is a sympathy to souls,
The power of exquisite delight? From lips
Of beauty, like aroma from the mind
Exhaling forth; or in the hoary aisle
Of dim Cathedrals dying slow away;
Or in some dream-built palace of the night,
Where angel-whispers make the spirit glow,
How sweet is Music!—with the Light twin-born.
And thy sad voice, poor Minstrel of the street!
Hath sweetness in its sorrow: wild thine air
And dim the meaning of that mournful eye;
For, blighting Poverty hath made thee droop
And worn the health-bloom of thy once fair cheek:
Pale-lipp'd thou art; and charity may read
Upon thy face the story of thy life;
The damp night-gush, the stony bed, the gripe
Of famine, and that fever of a soul
Whom not a smile hath visited through years
Of deep despair, hast thou not felt them, maid
Of many sorrows! yet so sweetly flows
The tide of music in thy homely song
Of tenderness, that when I hear thee sing,
As in a vision thou art beautified above
Thy lot; and tripping o'er the dew-clad hills
When young birds pipe their anthem to the Morn,
Like some bright Creature whom the wood-gods love
I see thee, in thy youth's elysian prime!
Hath sweetness in its sorrow: wild thine air
And dim the meaning of that mournful eye;
For, blighting Poverty hath made thee droop
And worn the health-bloom of thy once fair cheek:
Pale-lipp'd thou art; and charity may read
Upon thy face the story of thy life;
The damp night-gush, the stony bed, the gripe
Of famine, and that fever of a soul
Whom not a smile hath visited through years
Of deep despair, hast thou not felt them, maid
Of many sorrows! yet so sweetly flows
The tide of music in thy homely song
Of tenderness, that when I hear thee sing,
As in a vision thou art beautified above
Thy lot; and tripping o'er the dew-clad hills
When young birds pipe their anthem to the Morn,
Like some bright Creature whom the wood-gods love
I see thee, in thy youth's elysian prime!
That voice, of misery, oh! was it born;
Or, breathed by Happiness into thy soul
When hand in hand o'er childhood's vanish'd fields
Down hawthorn-lanes, by margins of clear brooks
And laughing streams, she led thee in her love?
With cottage-hymn hast thou not hallow'd oft
The sacred hour of eve, and called the smile
Of holiness upon thy father's cheek,
As flowed his kindled feelings in thy song
Of adoration? Minstrel of the street!
Whate'er has been thy lot, thy ballads breathe
Of summer-days to me; and from each strain
My heart can gather echoes, which have wings
To bear it downward into Years, where lie
The buried Joys that will not bloom again!
Or, breathed by Happiness into thy soul
When hand in hand o'er childhood's vanish'd fields
Down hawthorn-lanes, by margins of clear brooks
And laughing streams, she led thee in her love?
With cottage-hymn hast thou not hallow'd oft
The sacred hour of eve, and called the smile
Of holiness upon thy father's cheek,
As flowed his kindled feelings in thy song
Of adoration? Minstrel of the street!
Whate'er has been thy lot, thy ballads breathe
Of summer-days to me; and from each strain
My heart can gather echoes, which have wings
To bear it downward into Years, where lie
The buried Joys that will not bloom again!
London, February 14th, 1829.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery | |