A POET’S THOUGHT.

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BY WM. ALBERT SUTLIFFE.

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A thought that lay anear a Poet’s heart,

Found utterance into this cloudy world,

And stirred some souls with rapture. This poor bard,

Whose home was where the rugged mountains stoop

Their foreheads o’er small streams that plash their feet,

Sang a sweet note that through a palace stole,

Fluttering a queen’s proud breast until she wept.

For the same God doth deftly tune the strings

Of all men’s souls to one melodious strain,

And Nature runs one silver chord through all,

Which, sadly touched, gives each a tearful thrill.