That lofty principle hath long been dead
And in a shroud;
That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head,
Amid the crowd.
They tell me, too, that few they are who own
God's law and love;
That thousands, living for this earth alone,
Look not above;
That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse,
Men tread the path,
Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse
Of his dead wrath.
And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain,
Or to the few
Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain
Who still are true?
No; not for the false shall I strike the strings
Of the lyre that was mute so long;
If I sing at all, the gray bard sings
For the few and the true his song.
And ah! there is many a changeful mood
That over my spirit steals;
Beneath their spell, and in verses rude,
Whatever he dreams or feels.
Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve
Are haunting the lonely man,
Whether they gladden, or whether they grieve,
He'll sing them as best he can.
Though some of the strings of his lyre are broke
This holiest night of the year,
Who knows how its melody may wake
A Christmas smile or a tear?
So on with the mystic song,
With its meaning manifold —
Two tones in every word,
Two thoughts in every tone;
In the measured words that move along
One meaning shall be heard,
One thought to all be told;
But under it all, to be alone —
And under it all, to all unknown —
As safe as under a coffin-lid,
Deep meanings shall be hid.
Find them out who can!
The thoughts concealed and unrevealed
In the song of the lonely man.
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