Songs Unsung

There are songs yet unsung, that, though silent, we feel, As over the soul their faint melodies steal; Like the spell of enchantment which fairies would weave, To fetter the victim they mean to deceive.

’Tis vain to resist them: by day and by night They impart to the soul a deep, quiet delight, And we feel that their language the sense overpowers, As the air when oppressed with the perfume of flowers.

When sorrow’s dark shadows come like a death pall, And the dead leaves of hope by adversity fall, They come o’er the desert that looms in the heart, And a newness, a freshness, a verdure impart.

In the blue purpling waves of the sun-tinted sky, In the moonbeam, the sunbeam, the vesper’s low sigh, In the still quiet eve, and the night-wind’s low moan, Unembodied in words, yet to thought are they known.

In the low languid zephyr that steals through the dell, With a sweetness and sadness like lovers’ farewell; In each flower and meadow, each leaflet and brook, They each add a page to that mystical book.

O’er each object of nature alike they unfold A veil of deep mystery ever untold; For the rose in its modest and calm peaceful rest, Has infinite secrets enclosed in its breast.

Can it be that the spirit of genius yet lives, And to nature this chain of enchantment thus gives; That the souls of the dead, in this beautiful guise, Beam out like the light of some love angel’s eyes?

Ah, no!—’tis a glory through life’s mist that strays, Like the dawning of morn through an autumn’s thick haze, ’Tis the light of a glory for ever to shine, ’Tis a something within us—a something divine.

In sad reflection thee I scan, Lone tenant of this cell; Oh, could’st thou speak to mortal man, What mysteries would’st thou tell!

Here hast thou lain in sleep profound, And years, long years, have fled, Since friends and loved ones, gathering round, Wept o’er thy lowly bed.

Perchance through long and lonely hours, With heart-sick grief they mourned; And clad thy early grave with flowers, As oft as spring returned.

Perchance ’twas wit or beauty’s queen, Or wealth, that here lies low; But who or what thou may’st have been, It matters nothing now.

What thoughts were thine, what dreams of fame, What pride that would transcend! But grief, or guilt, or woe, or shame, All here would seem to end.

We little know, perchance thy bier Was borne by willing knave, Whose ruthless hand hath laid thee here To fill a pauper’s grave.

In sad reflection thee I scan, Lone tenant of this cell; Oh, could’st thou speak to mortal man, What mysteries would’st thou tell!

Now all is o’er—how vain, how weak, Are earthly strife and power— The bubble on the brooklet’s cheek, The tempest of an hour.

Oh, human pride, how weak, how vain! An evanescent breath; Oh life!—the memory of a pain, That will not die with death.

What checkered things our lives will be, How awful to behold, When in eternity we see Life’s motley web unrolled!