Pocahontas and Other Poems (New York)/Sacred Music
SACRED MUSIC.
The King of Israel sat in state
Within his palace fair,
Where falling fountains, pure and cool,
Assuaged the summer air;
But shrouded was the son of Kish,
Mid all his royal grace;
The tempest of a troubled soul
Swept flashing o'er his face.
In vain were pomp, or regal power,
Or courtier's flattering tone,
For pride and hatred basely sat
Upon his bosom's throne.
He call'd upon his minstrel-boy,
With hair as bright as gold,
Reclining in a deep recess,
Where droop'd the curtain's fold.
Upon his minstrel-boy he call'd,
And forth the stripling came,
Bright beauty on his ruddy brow,
Like morn's enkindling flame.
"Give music," said the moody king,
Nor raised his gloomy eye:
"Thou son of Jesse, bring the harp,
And wake its melody."
He thought upon his father's flock,
Which long, in pastures green,
He led, while flow'd, with silver sound,
Clear rivulets between.
He thought of Bethlehem's star-lit skies,
Beneath whose liquid rays
He gazed upon the glorious arch,
And sang its Maker's praise.
Then boldly o'er the sacred harp
He pour'd, in thrilling strain,
The prompting of a joyous heart,
That knew nor care nor pain.
The monarch, leaning on his hand,
Drank long the wondrous lay,
And clouds were lifted from his brow,
As when the sunbeams play.
The purple o'er his heaving breast,
That throbb'd so wild, grew still,
And Saul's clear eye glanced out, as when
He did Jehovah's will.
O ye who feel the poison-fumes
Of earth's fermenting care
Steal o'er the sky of hope, and dim
What Heaven created fair,
Should languid piety decline
Within your erring breast,
Or baleful passion's scorpion-sting
Bereave your soul of rest,
Ask music from a guileless heart,
High tones, with sweetness fraught,
And, by that alchymy divine,
Subdue the sinful thought.