For still I feel thee near me-- I see thy soft black eye-- I fancy thou canst hear me, And I thy sweet reply.
And yet, my friend, my dearest, This moment, where art thou? What envied eye is nearest, To look upon thee now?
Is thine own Hannah present, In spirit, still with thee? And dost thou find it pleasant To feel alone with me?
Then we are never parted! Nor distance, place, nor scene, The whole and faithful-hearted Shall ever come between.
And when earth's changeful weather, Its joys and sorrows cease, O may we dwell together In deathless love and peace!
Music? A blessed angel! She was born Within the palace of the King of kings-- A favorite near his throne. In that glad child Of Love and Joy, he made their spirits one; And her, the heir to everlasting life! When his bright hosts would give him highest praise, They send her forward with her dulcet voice, To pour their holy rapture in his ear. When the young earth to being started forth, Music lay sleeping in a bower of heaven. A crystal fountain, close beside her, gushed With living waters; and the sparkling cup For her pure draught, stood on its emerald brink. While o'er her brow a tender halo shone, Kissed by the nodding buds, her head reclined Upon a flowery pillow. At her ear, The soft leaves whispered. On her half-closed lips The gentle air strewed spices, wooing them. Dropped o'er its radiant orb, the long-fringed lid Veiled the deep inspiration of her eye; But on her cheek the rose-tint came and went, At the quick pulse that fluttered in her breast, And spoke a wakeful spirit. In her sleep, With one fair hand thrown o'er its silent strings, Close to her heart she clasped her golden lyre, To slumber with her, while she fondly dreamed Of the sweet uses she might make of it To numbers yet untried. When, suddenly, A shout of joy from all the sons of God, Rang through his courts: and then the thrilling call, "Wake! sister Music, wake, and hail with us, A new-created sphere!" She woke! She rose-- She moved among the morning stars, and gave The birth-song of a world. Our infant globe, With life's first pulse, rolled in its ether bed, Robed with the sunlight, mantled by the moon, Or tenderly embraced by stellar rays: Death, with his pale, cold finger, had not touched Its beauty then. No stain of guilt was here, And so, no cloud of sorrow cast a shade, Or rained its bitter drops on fruit or flower. As earth, on every side, shone fair to heaven, Not knowing yet whereto she was ordained, Music, from her celestial walks looked down, And thought, how sweetly she could wake the hills, Sing through the silent forests--in the vales-- Beside the silver waters pour her sounds; And multiply her numbers by the rocks! She longed to give it voice to speak to God; And, being told of her blest ministry, Bathed in a flood of glory, till her wings Dripped with effulgence, as they spread, and poised, And passed the pearly gates in earthward flight. Made viewless by the circumambient air, And scattering voices to its feathered tribes, As down she hastened to the shining sphere, The happy angel reached the beauteous earth. At her electric touch, young nature smiled, And kindled into rapture; then broke forth With thousand, thousand songs. The green turf woke; The sea-shells hummed along the vocal shore, The busy bee, upon his honeyed flower. Osier and reed became Eolian lyres. Trees bore sweet minstrels; while rock, hill, and dell Sang to each other in a joyous round. MAN, that mysterious instrument of God, When the warm soul of new-descended power Breathed on his heart-strings, lifted up his voice, Chanting, "JEHOVAH!" Since that blessed hour, While still her home is heaven, Music has ne'er This darkened world forsaken. She delights, Though man may lose, or keep the paths of peace, To soothe, to cheer, to light and warm his heart; And lends her wings to waft it to the skies. She throws a lustre o'er Devotion's face-- Drinks off the tear from Sorrow's languid eye-- Tames wild Despair--brings Hope a brighter bloom-- Lulls Hate to rest--Love's ruffled bosom smooths; Pours honey into many a bitter cup; And often gives the black and heavy hour A downy breast and pinions tipped with light. She steals all balmy through the prisoner's grates, Making that sad one half forget their use. With holy spell she binds the exile's heart, And pours her oil upon its hidden wounds. Kings are her lovers--cottagers her loves: The hero and the pilgrim walk with her. Her voice is sweet by cradled infancy, And from the pillow of the dying saint, When a glad spirit borrows her light wings To practise for the skies, ere it unfolds Its own, and breaks its tenure to the clay.