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I know not the words or the symphony, 'Twas all so full of harmony,
I failed to remember the air. Once Eva's gentle accents rose A little above the calm repose
Of Annie's, liquid and rare.
Tis a perilous post to sit and hear
You half feel bound to adore
But, alas! 'tis quickly o'er.
Ended, at last, in a burst of song,
I sprang at once to my feet,
At the end of as charming a treat.
There is a soul within the song
A soul that speaks unto the soul
Of man, and speaks with firm control.
Flashes of fire to the eyes it gives,
In every pulse new spirit lives;
New life is born in every limb,
Above the earth the senses swim.
'Tis then it feels the works of God,
'Tis then the soul o'ercomes the sod.
The thoughts rise as the song flows on,
Till every worldly thought is gone.
The feelings own their glorious birth,
The soul disdains its home of earth,
And feels prepared for instant flight,
Aloft 'midst the starry, spreading night;
Still the world beneath blooms sweetly fair,
Bidding the pilgrim linger there;
Till struggles past, 'midst earthly strife,
Prepare the way for purer life.
There is a something in the morn,
Radiant when the day is born,
And nature rises from its sleep,
As slowly the long shadows creep.
Deepening and shortening, as from rest,
The sun spring roundward toward the west.
Something then bids the human mind
Seek a Maker, good and kind;
A Life, that bade all others live;
A Soul, that joyed each soul to give;
A Being, to whom to utter praise,
With hopes for health and lengthened days:
And that inheritance of peace,
Which all desire when life shall cease.
In the morning light how the lark sings hymns,
Till the glorious sun his eyesight dims.
Again in the corn he seeks his nest,
Warming the young 'neath his downy breast.
Nor alone the lark, but each creature then;
Nor alone the brutes, but their masters, Men,
With hearts of joy, with hearts of care,
Address one Being in earnest prayer,
And that song had touched my soul, till plain
These thoughts passed through a restless brain.
The evening is passing quickly by,
Talking of different times.
As suns of southern climes.
Stories of British heroes told,
Relieving these with rhymes.
Eleven rapidly chimes.
The time has passed so merrily,
We wish it were but eight.
The echoes say, "'tis late."
Till two for me they will wait.
Who envies me not such a fate 1
Standing at the door,
Moonlight on the floor,
Wishing us good-night,
Sleep and happy dreams; In the placid light,
Lovely, Eva seems.
Glowing are her eyes,
Flowing is her hair, Like the shining skies,
Or angels lingering there.
Hark! a soft adieu,
Like to music falls: Or the silent dew,
Upon ruined walls.
Annie bends her head,
Whispers, "Soon return!" I could see Alfred,
Mark his visage burn.
I could hear a sigh,
Rising from her breast; See a hand so nigh,
Very softly pressed.
I could mark a kiss,
On her lily hand. For a night like this,
Love must all command.