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THE SPIRIT OF SONG.
BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
Eternal Fame! thy great rewards,
Throughout all time, shall be
The right of those old master-bards
Of Greece and Italy;
And of fair Albion's favored isle,
Where Poesy's celestial smile
Hath shone for ages, gilding bright
Her rocky cliffs, and ancient towers,
And cheering this new world of ours
With a reflected light.
Yet, though there be no path untrod
By that immortal race—
Who walked with Nature, as with God,
And saw her, face to face—
No living truth by them unsung—
No thought that hath not found a tongue
In some strong lyre of olden time;
Must every tuneful lute be still
That may not give a world the thrill
Of their great harp sublime?
Oh, not while beating hearts rejoice
In Music's simplest tone,
And hear in Nature's every voice
An echo to their own!
Not till these scorn the little rill
That runs rejoicing from the hill,
Or the soft, melancholy glide
Of some deep stream, through glen and glade,
Because 'tis not the thunder made
By ocean's heaving tide!
The hallowed lilies of the field
In glory are arrayed,
And timid, blue-eyed violets yield
Their fragrance to the shade;
Nor do the way-side flowers conceal
Those modest charms that sometimes steal
Upon the weary traveler's eyes
Like angels, spreading for his feet
A carpet, filled with odors sweet,
And decked with heavenly dyes.