  Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters, May the music of your song Silence all the dark forebodings That have plagued the world too long; He who made your voices tuneful Comes to right the wrong. Warble on, ye feathered songsters, Lift your praises loud and high, In the grove and in the sky Make your music, shame our dumbness, Till we make reply. Children's laughter is a music Flowing from a hidden spring, Which, though men misdoubt its virtue, Well is worth discovering; Slowly dies the heart that knows not How to laugh and sing. Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer Is the Heart of God Most High; That in varied tones reply To that Voice which through the ages Sings earth's lullaby. Oftentimes a sleepless infant For a season frets and cries: All at once an unseen finger Curtains up the little eyes. So the cradled child He nurses God will tranquillise. His the all-enfolding Presence; Oh, what tutelage it brings 'Neath the shelter of its wings; God's delays are no denials, As He waits He sings! They alone are seers and singers Who invalidate despair By the lofty hopes they cherish, By the gallant deeds they dare, By the ceaseless aspirations Of a life of prayer. Brothers, sisters, lift your voices, May the rapture of your song That have vexed the world too long; God would have us share the triumph That shall right the wrong. Loch Laggan: 1884. |
|
