Better to have the poet's heart than brain,
Feeling than song; but better far than both,
To be a song, a music of God's making;
A tablet, say, on which God's finger of flame,
In words harmonious, of triumphant verse,
That mingles joy and sorrow, sets down clear,
That out of darkness he hath called the light.
It may be voice to such is after given,
To tell the mighty tale to other worlds.
Oh! I am blest in sorrows with a hope
That steeps them all in glory; as gray clouds
Are bathed in light of roses; yea, I were
Most blest of men, if I were now returning
To Lilia's heart as presence. O my God,
I can but look to thee. And then the child!—
Why should my love to her break out in tears?
Why should she be only a consolation,
And not an added joy, to fill my soul
With gladness overflowing in many voices
Of song, and prayer—and weeping only when
Words fainted 'neath the weight of utterance?
SCENE IX.—LILIA preparing to go out. LILY.
Lily.
Don't go to-night again.
Lilia.
Why, child, your father
Will soon be home; and then you will not miss me.
Lily.
Oh, but I shall though! and he looks so sad
When you're not here!
Lilia
(aside).
He cannot look much sadder
Than when I am. I am sure 'tis a relief
To find his child alone when he returns.
Lily.
Will you go, mother? Then I'll go and cry
Till father comes. He'll take me on his knee,
And tell such lovely tales: you never do—
Nor sing me songs made all for my own self.
He does not kiss me half so many times
As you do, mother; but he loves me more.
Do you love father, too? I love him so!
Lilia
(ready).
There's such a pretty book! Sit on the stool,
And look at the pictures till your father comes.
[Goes.]