"Who ne'er his bread in sorrow ate,
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours
Weeping upon his bed hath sate,
He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers."
LONGFELLOW.
Since morning stars first sang in prayerful praise,
Since Adam's hymns resounded over space,
Or Sinai's hill trembled in glory's blaze;
Immortal song hath had acknowledged place.
Essence inherent of the sentient mind,
Mystic, yet co-existent with our breath,
A balm within the living brain enshrined
Which mitigates and soothes our ills of earth.
Impassive-while the gloss on world looks bright,
A flitting shadow through our labour hours.
But ever near lone watchers of the night
A spirit-music from Elysian bowers.
Proud Poesy! thy genius leads secure
The golden vein along Time's turbid stream,
A sparkling star, whose light is ever pure
Winning the heart, a love-illumined dream.
"The harp of sorrow" knows thy gentle hand,
Its trembling chords awaking at thy call;
And sweetest melody by thy command
In tender tones floats forth "in dying fall."
Guardian and guide of every wandering thought;
To thee no clime is strange, no land unknown;
Medicine of mind, ever in sorrow sought,
Blest be the heart which claims thee as its own.
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 5 October 1872
Who ne'er the mournful midnight hours
Weeping upon his bed hath sate,
He knows you not, ye Heavenly Powers."
LONGFELLOW.
Since morning stars first sang in prayerful praise,
Since Adam's hymns resounded over space,
Or Sinai's hill trembled in glory's blaze;
Immortal song hath had acknowledged place.
Essence inherent of the sentient mind,
Mystic, yet co-existent with our breath,
A balm within the living brain enshrined
Which mitigates and soothes our ills of earth.
Impassive-while the gloss on world looks bright,
A flitting shadow through our labour hours.
But ever near lone watchers of the night
A spirit-music from Elysian bowers.
Proud Poesy! thy genius leads secure
The golden vein along Time's turbid stream,
A sparkling star, whose light is ever pure
Winning the heart, a love-illumined dream.
"The harp of sorrow" knows thy gentle hand,
Its trembling chords awaking at thy call;
And sweetest melody by thy command
In tender tones floats forth "in dying fall."
Guardian and guide of every wandering thought;
To thee no clime is strange, no land unknown;
Medicine of mind, ever in sorrow sought,
Blest be the heart which claims thee as its own.
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 5 October 1872
