But most he joyed to listen to the words
Of happy children, respited a while,
From fearful looking to the day of death;
And it was Jubal’s chief delight to wed
Their gladsome voices with the Eden notes
To which the first sweet marriage-hymn was set—
The silver-throated wooing of the birds—
The trilling of the zephyr-courted leaves—
The merry-hearted laughter of the brooks—
The multitudinous hum of joyous life—
The weird lullaby that Nature sings
Unto the darlings fondled in her lap,
Loving but helpless, and their low response;
And all the vocal charms of summer time,
That wrap the soul in dreamy, languid bliss.
All gentle sounds nestled within his heart,
But not alone (though these he loved the most)
Were gentle sounds the study of the boy.
The mournful requiem of the dying leaves,—
The piping gales that make the forest dance,—
The tempest’s rage, to which the pine and oak
Are but as playthings to an angry child:
The rain, the whirlwind and the thundercrash,—
The mountain torrent, “the vexed ocean’s roar,”—
The noisy lapping of the tongues of fire,—
The howl of hungry, ravenous beasts of prey,—
All that is sad or mad in Nature’s voice,—
All that reminds us of the awful words
That pierced the fancied hiding place of sin,
Ere yet the curse descended,—these he knew.
For, in those giant days before the Flood,
Nature and man were ever face to face,
Till Art grew, Nature’s image, in man’s heart.
So Jubal revelled in all sweet, grand sounds,
A seeming spendthrift, but with miser craft,
Locking his airy jewels in the casket
Of lovingest remembrance,—till the boy
Dreamed himself into manhood.
Then there weighed
Upon his brain the burden of a thought,—
To bring to life the music that his soul
Had gathered from the music of the world,—
To make, by cunning union, every tone
Of its great voice obedient to his will.
And so he planned, awake, and, sleeping, dreamed
Of this, his one idea; till at last
’Neath his creative hand the “Harp” was born.
And then he planned again, for life was long
In those far, shadowy years before the Flood,
Until the “Organ,” in its mighty heart,
Echoed the throbbings of the heart of man.
APOLLO DROPT A SEED OF SONG.
I.
Apollo dropt a seed of song
Into my heart one day,
And, smiling godlike, passed along
Upon his heavenly way.
II.
I saw him make his golden arc,
For many a weary day,
But still the little seedling, dark
Lay hid beneath the clay.