Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/38

The eye, with all its mystic lore,
    Its sparkling glance, its varying die,
From lover's lute and minstrel's strain
    Hath drunk of old high eulogy;

While in its clustering thicket hid,
    The ear unchronicled remained,
Yet ever with the ruling mind
    Close league and covenant maintained.

For what were eloquence, shouldst thou,
    Harp of the soul, thine aid deny?
And how would love's soft errand speed,
    Shouldst thou forget his whispered sigh?

And how must high Devotion droop,
    If all his glorious themes should be
Lost in thy labyrinthine maze,
    Or misinterpreted by thee?

Oh peaceful blind! the wheels of life,
    That with their dust-clouds dim the soul,
Ye see not their revolving strife,
    But catch their music as they roll;

Ye see not how the scythe of time
    Cuts the young blossom ere it springs,
Yet may you trace with skill sublime
    The heavenward movement of his wings.