A SONG ON SINGING.
A SUPPOSED IMPROMPTU.
The board is bare, the lights are low,
My songs are sung, but, ere we go,
One more I bring, and answer so
Your kindly plaudits ringing.
No wealth and rank belong to me,
But yet, where thought and word are free,
The voice alone a power may be,
And rule the world by singing.
How oft, of old, when reign’d the wrong,
And rare and regal rose in song,
The call sublime that roused the strong
From hut and hamlet springing,
Like avalanches launch’d in might,
Where thunder shakes an Alpine height,
Resistless down its path of white,
Has right been led by singing.
How oft, when sounds of war awoke,
And wide as earth a vision broke
Of sword and gun in flash and smoke,
And flags o’er freemen springing;
Where few escaped the foeman’s power,
As fail’d the chief and fell the tower,
The land has yet survived the hour
When nerved anew by singing.
All else, at last, with death may meet,—
Brave hearts whose hopes had made them beat,
Like moats beneath the soldiers’ feet,
When victory’s cheers are ringing;
But e’en the dead whose deeds inspire
The minstrel, o’er the grave or pyre
May rise, like Israel’s cloud of fire,
And lead their race through singing.
Nor less the power of song, when peace
Has dawn’d apace, and hopes increase,
As men in thrall have found release,
Their fetters from them flinging.
Oh, what could make their thanks complete,
Did crowds exultant fail to meet
In great Town Hall, or village street,
And shout their joy in singing!
Or when sad souls the wine would quaff
Of mirth brimm’d bubbling o’er with laugh,
What sparkling draughts in their behalf,
The comic bard comes bringing!
And ever, round the social board,
As full the foaming pledge is pour’d,
See how good-will the heart could hoard
Is lavish’d with the singing.
How blest are homes, all fill’d with song,
The mother’s hum, the choral strong,
The hymn that bears great thoughts that throng
Where all pure hope is winging!
How heaves the breast in air so sweet,
How thrills the blood it fills to meet,
While all the spirit bounds to greet
The joys of life in singing!
There let sweet love a pair ensnare
With dainty dreams of visions fair,
Wherein, like wings athrob the air,
Rare wedding bells are ringing.
Then, stirr’d by moods that move the heart,
What tunes upon the lip will start,
As if true love could not impart
Such sweets except through singing!
The cares may come that track success,
Or storms of swift and full distress
May make of life a wilderness,
A flood of anguish bringing;
The sorrows of the soul will rise,
And pour their woe through weeping eyes,
And drain at last the source of sighs,
When hearts o’erflow in singing.
If doubt and vice with cloud and tide
Surround a wretch whose father’s pride
And mother’s love have wellnigh died,
And sister’s hands are wringing,
Ah, then, beyond the waves that roar,
He too may heed the friendly shore,
Where others, won from woes before,
Their heartfelt praise are singing.
Through mists that, like a shroud around,
In densest folds the soul had bound,
My life has known a song to sound,
Nerve dying hope by ringing
As clear as tolls a lighthouse bell
Where ghost-like rush the breakers fell—
The soul they would have borne to hell
Was warn’d from it by singing.
A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea,
Were earth that knew no songs of glee;
And what would heaven beyond it be
If anthems ne’er were springing
From voices there, where funeral knells
Are sweeter far than marriage bells
To love call’d hence that ever dwells
Within the sound of singing!
The wise who once thought heavenly spheres,
As all unroll’d their store of years,
Woke music through their atmospheres
That soft and far was ringing;
Heard subtler music, it may be,
Where love rules all, yet all are free,
And though not thoughts, yet hearts agree,
For all beat time in singing.
Ah, when no lights of life remain,
As dimly death’s cold draft we drain,
How sweetly then will sound the strain
From heaven through darkness winging,
Where choirs above through endless years
Praise love that ransoms all from fears
Nor asks for aught, save what to seers
Appears to be glad singing!
But stay—to keep below with men
The minstrel knows not how nor when.
Here end I then—yet once again
Let echoes answer, ringing
To that which lulls the babe at birth,
And voices all the good of earth,
Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,—
Eternal sway to singing!