Classic Poem

The Power of Song

In the temple stands the golden lyre,
Near the presence of the genial power;
Round it plays an orb of holiest fire; —
So it stands, and waits the inspiring hour.
Rolls the sun unto his highest throne;
Broad he fills the temple's vaulted shade:
Touched by hands unseen, in solemn tone,
Rings the harp, — the winds are laid.

Slow and full they swell, — the mystic chords;
Stillness, more than awful, fills the air:
Mingled with the tones, sublimest words
High the listening soul, in glory, bear.
Light is all around him; light and love,
As on wings, aloft the listener raise:
Ever wider heaves the arch above;
Fairer beauty round him plays.

Now they swell, the tones, and swells the breast,
Kindled with the bliss of great design:
Faint the music whispers; hushed to rest,
Couched on flowers, the passions all recline:
Clear the harp resounds; the spirit's eye
Keenest glance through nature's wonders throws:
Tenderer touches glide, and silently
Blest the tear of feeling flows.

How hushed the winds! how calm the air!
The leaf is still on bush and tree;
No blossom shakes, and quietly
The herd and flock are resting there.
They feel the soothing power of song;
A stream of love, it flows along; —
The winds are still; the sky is fair.

By magic shores the vessel glides;
Entranced by song, the waves are laid:
Visions of home, forgotten, fade;
In peace the storm-beat wanderer rides.
Smooth sleeps the sea; serenest day
Smiles o'er the ocean far away:
The power of song has hushed the tides.

Pale in the west the glow decays,
That late arose in golden fire;
Waked by the touch of soft desire,
Through twilight shades the music plays.
In darkened vale its pulses thrill;
Peace broods above the glimmering hill;
His flight the fleeting moment stays.

It comes — the storm, so long repelled,
In wilder rage again;
Like wintry stream, by barrier swelled,
Loud bursts it o'er the plain:
With gathered might it sweeps along;
Like thunder, peals its roar:
The Æolian melodies of song
Are lost, amid the wildering throng;
The lyre is heard no more.

A moment's pause the tempest feels,
And soft the heavenly tone,
As evening hymn from cottage steals,
Breathes sweetly faint and lone.
Uncertain, as if thrilled with fear,
It melts and dies away:
I turn, and wait with longing ear,
And low and dim it rises near,
Quick falls, — it cannot stay.

Serene and calm the world of song,
Above the cloud and gale:
There flows a sheeted stream along,
Through many a silent vale:
There ever blue the sunny sky;
Spring-warm the wooing air:
White filmy wreaths of beauty lie,
Alone, in holiest rest, on high; —
Love dwells for ever there.English