SILENCE.
Than ever cloister'd walls responded to.
—The lonely orphan child, who steals at night
Where the round moon shines on a mother's grave,
Knows little how to mould his trusting faith.
In proper sentences; but the dim eye
That sheds its blinding tear upon the turf,
And then looks up to the fair silver stars,
Carries a ray of holy fervency
That will not be rejected at the throne
Of Him who suits the "wind to the shorn lamb,
The erring one, whose right arm has been strong
In working evil, may repent, "and save
His soul alive." He cannot frame his thoughts
In saintly code, but the pale, moping brow
That droops in silence, penitence, and shame,
Shall plead for him at the eternal bar,
Where boundless mercy fills the judgment-seat.
—The lonely orphan child, who steals at night
Where the round moon shines on a mother's grave,
Knows little how to mould his trusting faith.
In proper sentences; but the dim eye
That sheds its blinding tear upon the turf,
And then looks up to the fair silver stars,
Carries a ray of holy fervency
That will not be rejected at the throne
Of Him who suits the "wind to the shorn lamb,
The erring one, whose right arm has been strong
In working evil, may repent, "and save
His soul alive." He cannot frame his thoughts
In saintly code, but the pale, moping brow
That droops in silence, penitence, and shame,
Shall plead for him at the eternal bar,
Where boundless mercy fills the judgment-seat.
The Poet wins the world with minstrelsy,
And holds the ear of wondering nations fast;
But fuller melodies and rarer themes
Dwell in his soul, and people his quick brain,
Than any that his burning song can give.
Swift-flashing streams from Helicon's high fount
Rush through his breast; but their cherubic sounds
Of murmuring music are too strangely wild
To live again, even upon his lyre.
—Let the proud Orator assert the power
That Language holds; but the Soul, prouder still,
Shall keep an eloquence all, all her own,
And mock the tongued interpreter.
And holds the ear of wondering nations fast;
But fuller melodies and rarer themes
Dwell in his soul, and people his quick brain,
Than any that his burning song can give.
Swift-flashing streams from Helicon's high fount
Rush through his breast; but their cherubic sounds
Of murmuring music are too strangely wild
To live again, even upon his lyre.
—Let the proud Orator assert the power
That Language holds; but the Soul, prouder still,
Shall keep an eloquence all, all her own,
And mock the tongued interpreter.
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