I LONGED to sing a wondrous song, So wondrous, ’twould compel The admiration unreserved Of one and all as well. My pen I took in hand and strove The magic words to write, Alas! I could not of my Muse Inspiration invite. She would not humor, tho’ I begged Persistently and long For the right metre—the right thought, To best set down my song. ’Twas stately phrase I coveted, The Laurel I would court— That of the world’s acknowledgment Of unsurpass´ed thought. At length disheartened, my appeal Knew, but to be denied, I rose and to the window moved, And marked the scene outside. All quiet stretched the land before, Enwrapt in the soft haze Which with such rare enchantment clothes Autumn’s initial days. Idly my glance the expanse swept Till it came to where lay Outside the gate, the winding road Leading to far-away. Then with the moment light was mine— Yet not complex its thought, The inspiration which appealed Was diff’rent, from that sought. The winding road—the simple theme— They who followed after— The toll it wrested of sad tears, For short dole of laughter. The tranquil ways bidden farewell, To seek of its unrest, The truth alas! too oft brought home, The paths forsook, were best. Could I but so compose a lay, That one who heard might pause, Nor continue to sacrifice In an unrighteous cause. And keep his soul tho’ it should be By cruelest conflict wrung, I need not further supplicate— My wondrous song were sung. |