Lyric To The Isles
Here the spirit of Beauty keepeth
Jubilee for evermore;
Here the voice of Gladness leapeth,
Echoing from shore to shore.
O'er the hidden watery valley,
O'er each buried wood and glade,
Dances our delighted galley,
Through the sunlight and the shade;
Dances o'er the granite cells,
Where the soul of Beauty dwells;
Here the flowers are ever springing,
While the summer breezes blow;
Here the Hours are ever clinging,
Loitering before they go;
Playing round each beauteous islet,
Loath to leave the sunny shore,
Where, upon her couch of violet,
Beauty sits for evermore;
Sits and smiles by day and night,
Hand in hand with pure Delight.
Here the spirit of Beauty dwelleth
In each palpitating tree,
In each amber wave that welleth
From its home beneath the sea;
In the moss upon the granite
In each calm, secluded bay,
With the zephyr trains that fan it
With their sweet breaths all the day–
On the waters, on the shore,
Beauty dwelleth evermore!
Dedicatory Poem
Dear Carrie, were we truly wise,
And could discern with finer eyes,
And half-inspired sense,
The ways of Providence:
Could we but know the hidden things
That brood beneath the Future's wings,
Hermetically sealed,
But soon to be revealed:
Would we, more blest than we are now,
In due submission learn to bow,-
Receiving on our knees
The Omnipotent decrees?
That which is just, we have. And we
Who lead this round of mystery,
This dance of strange unrest,
What are we at the best?-
Unless we learn to mount and climb;
Writing upon the page of time,
In words of joy or pain,
That we've not lived in vain.
We all are Ministers of Good;
And where our mission's understood,
How many hearts we must
Raise, trembling, from the dust.
Oh, strong young soul, and thinking brain!
Walk wisely through the fair domain
Where burn the sacred fires
Of Music's sweet desires!
Cherish thy Gift; and let it be
A Jacob's ladder unto thee,
Down which the Angels come,
To bring thee dreams of Home.
What were we if the pulse of Song
Had never beat, nor found a tongue
To make the Poet known
In lands beyond his own?
Take what is said for what is meant.
We sometimes touch the firmament
Of starry Thought-no more;
Beyond, we may not soar.
I speak not of myself, but stand
In silence till the Master Hand
Each fluttering thought sets free.
God holds the golden key.
