TO THE REV. J—— P——, OF BOSTON.
Written after reading some of his touching poems, particularly the one entitled, “My father, mother, brothers, and sisters.”
O, tell me! art thou not life-weary now,
Thou of the noble heart and lofty brow?
Or canst thou breast the waves that round thee rise,
Till call’d to soar above these clouded skies?
Thy father, mother, brothers, sisters, all
Save one, have heard the heavenly Master’s call,
And hasten’d to their dear eternal home;
And thou art left in this dark world to roam.
O, tell me what on earth to thee remains?
For weeping I have read thy mournful strains,
When thou hast told of sorrows, such as I
Have felt—though I had not the power to die,
When death a welcome friend had been to me;
O, would not death be welcome too, to thee?
Yet there are loved ones round thy cheerful hearth;
O, these must sweetly bind thee still to earth!
We hold a chain outstretch’d from earth to Heaven,
By God’s own love to weary mortals given;
But every link removed, that shortens this,
Draws us the nearer to our home of bliss.
The moanful sighings of the wand’ring wind
Have a strange power to move my inmost mind,
And bring sweet thoughts of other days to me,
By some unknown, mysterious sympathy.
So has thy plaintive lyre, with low soft tone,
Pour’d on my soul a music of its own,
And waked an answering chord within my breast,
Which thrills harmonious in my hours of rest.
Thou gifted Bard! whose richly gilded thought
Comes like a ray with noonday brightness fraught,
And cheers the heart obscured by sorrow’s breath,
Which dims all brightness in this world of death—
I thank thee for the lays which thou hast sung!
I thank thee for the lyre which thou hast strung!
Those thrilling lays—that have with me communed,
That deep toned lyre—by holy feelings tuned.
Still let thy silvery dulcet tones be heard,
Like the low warbling of some lonely bird;
Or let thy full toned diapason roll,
Like organ strains—entrancing every soul!
This weary earth is full of discord strange;
But when thy harp is struck, how sweet the change!
Then tune it oft, and sweep th’ obedient strings
Till all the air with heaven-born music rings!
And when thy hand shall wake its harmonies,
To bear the music on, let Echo rise,
And every where in sweet vibration play,
Till I shall hear it—far, O, far away!
Boston, October 13, 1840.