Softly bright, or wildly glaring,
Let my soul-fires ever shine,
Full of passion high and daring,
Or the warm, soft radiance wearing
That is given for a sign
That the soul within is lighted
At some holy angel-shrine;
But let not the senseless coldness
Of a withered heart be mine.
THE TALISMAN.
What would ye give, ye triflers, say,
Young men and maidens, what would ye
Bestow to know the mystery
Of what an angel said to me—
An angel said to me one day?
Ah, dark and heavy was my soul!
Once had it been all gay and light,
And fearing not the coming blight,
Had perched itself on pleasure's height,
And writ its name on pleasure's scroll.
But soon, too soon, a change o'ercame
My spirit, and my heart was broke—
Was broke and bowed beneath the yoke
Of grief too sacred to be spoke,
Yet eating out my soul like flame.
Then, to my side an angel stole—
An angel with bright shining hair,
And sweet young face divinely fair—
Speaking with voice more soft and rare
Than music's most voluptuous roll.
