  BY PROFESSOR WM. CAMPBELL.[AN EXTRACT.]Lyre of my soul, awake—thy chords are few, Feeble their tones and low, Wet with the morning and the evening dew Of ceaseless wo. The time hath been to me and thee, my lyre, When soul of fire Was ours, and notes and aspirations bold Of higher hopes and prouder promise told— Those days have flown— Now we are old, Old and alone! Old in our youth—for sorrow maketh old, And disappointment withereth the frame, And harsh neglect will smother up the flame, That else had proudly burned—and the cold Offcasting of affection will repel The warm life-current back upon the heart, And choke it nigh to bursting—yet 't is well, And wise-intended, that the venomed dart Shall bear its sure and speedy remedy. Why should the wretched wish to live? to be One in this cold wide world—ever to feel That others feel not—wounds that will not heal— A bruised, though yet unbroken spirit's strife— A waning and a wasting out of life— A longing after loving—and the curse To know One's self unknown— In secrecy a hopeless hope to nurse— Down to the grave to go Unloved—alone! Yet not alone! Pardon, thou gentle breeze, That comest o'er the waters with the tread Of beauty stealing to the sufferer's bed, To cool the burning brow, and whisper peace. Pardon, ye sweet wild flow'rets, that each morn Woo us to brush the dew-drop from the lid Of tearful innocence, and meekly warn Of worth in garb of lowliest texture hid. Beings of gentlest life, ye murmuring streams, Lull of our waking, music of our dreams, Ye things of artless merriment, that throw Around you gladness, wheresoe'er ye flow— And ye dark mountains, down whose changeful sides The mystic guardian, giant shadow strides, Whose kindly frown, howe'er the storms prevail, Peace and repose ensureth to the vale— Ye tall proud forests, that forever sway In kingly fury, or in graceful play— Ye bright blue waters whose untiring drip Against this island shore doth lightly break, Gentle and noiseless as the parting lip Of dreaming infant on its mother's cheek, Pardon my rash averment—pardon, ye Flow'rets and streamlets, mountains, woods and waves, That pour into the soul a melody, Like to the far down music of the caves Of ocean, heard not, felt not, save within, Seeking to joy the darker depths to win— Oh! while your sweet and sacred voices steal Into my spirit, as the joyous fall Of the warm sunbeam on the frozen rill, To wake the voice that slumbereth, and call To bear you company In your glad hymnings, let the wretched own He cannot be Alone! Never alone!—awake, my soul—on high The glorious sun his thousand rays has flung Athwart the vaulted sky— Lo! there the heavens their mighty harp have strung, The gold, the silver and the crimson chord, To hymn their evening hymn unto the Lord. Hark! heard ye not that glorious burst of song, Which, touched by hands unseen, those chords sent forth, Bidding the attuned spheres the notes prolong Deeper and louder, till the trembling earth Catcheth the thrilling strain— Echoeth back again— From the bosom of ocean a voice Pealeth forth, and the mountains rejoice And the plains and the woods and the valleys rebound, And the Universe all is a creature of sound, That runneth his race Through the infinite regions of infinite space, Till arrived at the throne Of HIM who alone Is worthy of honor and glory and praise. And it is ever thus—morn, noon and eve, And in the still midnight, undying Choirs of creation's minstrels weave Sweet symphony of incense, vying In wrapt intricacy of endless songs. Ever, oh ever thus they sing, But to our soul's dull ear belongs Seldom the trancing sense To list the universal worshiping, Thrill with the glorious theme, and drink its eloquence. Mocking all our soul's desiring, Distant now the notes are stealing, And the minstrels high reining, Drapery blue their forms concealing.
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