[TO JENNY LIND,]
ON HEARING HER SING THE ARIA "ON MIGHTY PENS," FROM "THE CREATION."
When Haydn first conceived that air divine,
The voice that thrilled his inward ear was thine.
The Lark, that even now to heaven's gate springs,
And near the sky her earth-born carol sings,
Poured on his ear a higher, purer note,
And heavenly rapture seemed to swell her throat.
To him, from groves of Paradise, the Dove
Breathed Eden's innocence and Eden's love;
And seraph-taught seemed the enchanting lay
The Nightingale poured forth at close of day;
For yet nor sin nor sorrow had its birth,
To touch, as now, the sweetest sounds of earth.
Yes! as upon his inner sense was borne
The melody of that primeval morn,
And all his soul was music,—O, to him
The voice of Nature was an angel's hymn!
But was there, then, one human voice that brought
Unto his outward ear his own rapt thought,
In tones, interpreting in worthy guise
The varied notes of Eden's melodies?—
O, happier we! for unto us 'tis given
To hear, through thee, the strains he caught from heaven.
December 1, 1851.
[MY HERBARIUM.]
Poor, dry, musty flowers! Who would believe you ever danced in the wind, drank in the evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on the air? A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. Your odors are like attic herbs, or green tea, or mouldy books. Your forms are bent and flattened into every ugly and distorted shape. Your lovely colors are faded,—white changed to black, yellow to dirty white, gorgeous scarlet to brick color, purple to muddy brown. Poor things! Who drew you from your native woods and brooks, to press you flat, and dry your moisture up, and paste you down helplessly upon your backs, such mocking shadows of your former grace and beauty?