Influence of the Outward
The sun, the moon, the waters, and the air,
The hopeful, holy, terrible, and fair;
Flower-alphabets, love-letters from the wave,
All mysteries which flutter, blow, skim, lave;
All that is ever-speaking, never spoken,
Spells that are ever breaking, never broken,—
Have played upon my soul, and every string
Confessed the touch which once could make it sing
Triumphal notes; and still, though changed the tone,
Though damp and jarring fall the lyre hath known,
It would, if fitly played, and all its deep notes wove
Into one tissue of belief and love,
Yield melodies for angel-audience meet,
And pæans fit creative power to greet.
O, injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred;
No garlands deck thee; no libations poured
Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song;
No princely halls echo thy strains along;
But still the strings are there; and if at last they break,
Even in death some melody will make.
Mightst thou once more be strung, might yet the power be given,
To tell in numbers all thou hast of heaven!
But no! thy fragments scattered by the way,
To children given, help the childish play.
Be it thy pride to feel thy latest sigh
Could not forget the law of harmony,
Thou couldst not live for bliss—but thou for truth couldst die!