MISCELLANEOUS.

The board is bare, the lights are low, My songs are sung, but, ere we go, One more I bring, and answer so Your kindly plaudits ringing. No wealth and rank belong to me, But yet, where thought and word are free, The voice alone a power may be, And rule the world by singing. How oft, of old, when reign’d the wrong, And rare and regal rose in song, The call sublime that roused the strong From hut and hamlet springing, Like avalanches launch’d in might, Where thunder shakes an Alpine height, Resistless down its path of white, Has right been led by singing. How oft, when sounds of war awoke, And wide as earth a vision broke Of sword and gun in flash and smoke, And flags o’er freemen springing; Where few escaped the foeman’s power, As fail’d the chief and fell the tower, The land has yet survived the hour When nerved anew by singing. All else, at last, with death may meet,— Brave hearts whose hopes had made them beat, Like moats beneath the soldiers’ feet, When victory’s cheers are ringing; But e’en the dead whose deeds inspire The minstrel, o’er the grave or pyre May rise, like Israel’s cloud of fire, And lead their race through singing. Nor less the power of song, when peace Has dawn’d apace, and hopes increase, As men in thrall have found release, Their fetters from them flinging. Oh, what could make their thanks complete, Did crowds exultant fail to meet In great Town Hall, or village street, And shout their joy in singing! Or when sad souls the wine would quaff Of mirth brimm’d bubbling o’er with laugh, What sparkling draughts in their behalf, The comic bard comes bringing! And ever, round the social board, As full the foaming pledge is pour’d, See how good-will the heart could hoard Is lavish’d with the singing. How blest are homes, all fill’d with song, The mother’s hum, the choral strong, The hymn that bears great thoughts that throng Where all pure hope is winging! How heaves the breast in air so sweet, How thrills the blood it fills to meet, While all the spirit bounds to greet The joys of life in singing! There let sweet love a pair ensnare With dainty dreams of visions fair, Wherein, like wings athrob the air, Rare wedding bells are ringing. Then, stirr’d by moods that move the heart, What tunes upon the lip will start, As if true love could not impart Such sweets except through singing! The cares may come that track success, Or storms of swift and full distress May make of life a wilderness, A flood of anguish bringing; The sorrows of the soul will rise, And pour their woe through weeping eyes, And drain at last the source of sighs, When hearts o’erflow in singing. If doubt and vice with cloud and tide Surround a wretch whose father’s pride And mother’s love have wellnigh died, And sister’s hands are wringing, Ah, then, beyond the waves that roar, He too may heed the friendly shore, Where others, won from woes before, Their heartfelt praise are singing. Through mists that, like a shroud around, In densest folds the soul had bound, My life has known a song to sound, Nerve dying hope by ringing As clear as tolls a lighthouse bell Where ghost-like rush the breakers fell— The soul they would have borne to hell Was warn’d from it by singing. A shadeless waste, a mist-hid sea, Were earth that knew no songs of glee; And what would heaven beyond it be If anthems ne’er were springing From voices there, where funeral knells Are sweeter far than marriage bells To love call’d hence that ever dwells Within the sound of singing! The wise who once thought heavenly spheres, As all unroll’d their store of years, Woke music through their atmospheres That soft and far was ringing; Heard subtler music, it may be, Where love rules all, yet all are free, And though not thoughts, yet hearts agree, For all beat time in singing. Ah, when no lights of life remain, As dimly death’s cold draft we drain, How sweetly then will sound the strain From heaven through darkness winging, Where choirs above through endless years Praise love that ransoms all from fears Nor asks for aught, save what to seers Appears to be glad singing! But stay—to keep below with men The minstrel knows not how nor when. Here end I then—yet once again Let echoes answer, ringing To that which lulls the babe at birth, And voices all the good of earth, Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,— Eternal sway to singing!

Music round the world is ringing, Sweeter ne’er is heard by man; Music angel hosts were singing, Ere the morning stars began; Sweeter ’tis than dreams of music, Music one awakes to hear Trailing on a train of echoes O’er a mild and moonlit meer; More it moves than martial marches, More than gleams of long-lost hope, More than suns to glory lifting Dew they draw from plain and slope; Music ’tis that thrills us only In the art that hearts control, When the breath of ardor holy Softly stirs a sighing soul. Music in the breast is bringing Every soul its own reward, Like the lute’s that tunes to singing Only tones that with it chord. Let the heart devoid of pleasure Throb as throbs its rhythmic beat, Soon will joys that none can measure Round it and within it meet,— Joys without in those about it, Joys within, that pulsing come, Firm of tread as warriors marching Where before them rolls the drum; Known by inward senses only, Only known like bliss above, Life of life and order holy, Sounds the music soft of love.

She came: she went: ’twas all a dream, A groundless hope, a barren scheme; And yet a dearer dream did seem Than ever made a dawn seem drear. She tuned sweet music in my breast, Till every sad or joyous guest, That sway’d it once, with wondering rest, Grew hush’d as hate when heaven is near. She came: she went: a beam sublime That, straying toward a sunless clime, Trembled along the edge of Time And then in fright sped back amain. Ah, wherefore came she if to go! I had not known the half of woe Had I not felt that heavenly glow, And, match’d with it, found earth so vain. She came: she went: I know I dream’d; Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam’d; But yet how dear the future seem’d, And, though it was the world, how real! Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon, And change to night what had been noon! Did Heaven sufficient deem the boon To grant to me a form ideal?

Our jest and gossip ceased at last; It seem’d as if my lips were fast. Ah me, such holy hopes loom’d then; My mind could only think, “Amen.” But soon she cried out, “How absurd!” And laugh’d, whereat her little bird Caught up the music of the word, And trill’d an echo, loud and long, Till, deafen’d quite, she check’d the song. “That bird,” said she,—“Hush, hush, you thing!— Flew in the window here, one spring. We caught and caged him, and he grew The sweetest pet that ever flew; I hold my finger toward him so, And down he flies and lights, you know, And pecks my hair and lips, and oh, How jauntily—you ought to see— He perks his head and chirps for me! “Last year, he flew away, one day, And then, the scene we had! the way We wept for him; and search’d the town! And how it made the neighbors frown The twentieth time we ask’d for him! But, just as day was growing dim, He lit on yonder ash-tree limb; And ‘Dick,’ I call’d, and back he flew; Now, didn’t you, birdie?—naughty you!” With this again she laugh’d at him; And I,—I thought the room grew dim; And then, I whisper’d: “Dear, a word,— For I—I know one other bird That longs and longs to fly to you; And, dearest, you may cage it, too; ’Twill sing, and serve, and be so true.” And then she blush’d, and then she wept, And then this bird of love she kept.

Whatever the mission of life may be, Let love keep true, and let thought keep free, And never, whatever may cause the plan, Enlarge the calling to lessen the man. The cut of a coat, Cant chatter’d by rote, A priestly or princely state remote From the ties that bind A man to mankind, Are a clog and a curse to spirit and mind; For God, who made us, made only a man, No arms of a snob, no shield of a clan. Far better a friend that is friendly to God, Than a sycophant kissing a ribbon or rod. Help on no ways nor words that extol The vise of a bias that binds the soul; No rank held up by holding down True worth as an underling stript of his crown; No cause with a lie For a party-cry To catch the low or to court the high; No life with a creed That ends all the need Of knowing or growing in thought or deed.— Weigh well their worth; true dawnings of light Can abide your waiting and grow more bright. Weigh not, you prove the trend of my thought: Your soul is a slave to be sold and bought.

She came; and I who linger’d there, I saw that she was very fair; And, with my sighs that pride suppress’d, There rose a trembling wish for rest. But I, who had my own design For destiny that should be mine, I turn’d me to my task and wrought, And so forgot the passing thought. She paused; and I who question’d there, I heard she was as good as fair; And in my soul a still, small voice Enjoin’d me not to check my choice. But I, who had my own design For destiny that should be mine, I bade the gentle guardian down, And strove to think about renown. She left; and I who wander, fear There comes no more to see or hear; Those walls that ward my paradise Are very high, nor open twice. And I, who had my own design For destiny that should be mine, Can only wait without the gate And sit and sigh—“Too late! too late!”