CORDA CONCORDIA
O mother Nature, thou who best
Man's heart in all thy ways interpretest!
High thoughts of thee brought near
Unto our minstrel-seer
The antique calm, the Asian wisdom old,
Till in his verse we heard
Of blossom, bee, and bird,
Of mountain crag and pine, the manifold
Rich song,—and on the world his eyes
Dwelt penetrant with vision sweet and wise.
Whence came the silver tongue
To one forever young
Who spoke until our hearts within us burned?
This reverend one, who took
No palimpsest or book,
But read his soul with glances inward turned,
While (her rapt forehead like the dawn)
The Sibyl listened, by that music drawn,
And from her fearless mouth,
Where never speech had drouth,
Gave voice to some old chant of womanhood,—
Her own imaginings,
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