Classic Poem

If I had Jubal's chorded shell,
O'er which the first-born music rolled,
In burning tones, that loved to dwell
Among those wires of trembling gold:
If to my soul one note were given
Of that high harp, whose sweeter tone
Caught its majestic strains from Heaven,
Which glowed like fire round Israel's throne:
Up in the deep blue starry sky,
Then might my soul aspire to hold
Communion fervent, long and high
With bard and king and prophet old:
Then might my spirit dare to trace
The path our ancient people trod,
When the gray sires of Jacob's race,
Like faithful servants, walked with God!

But Israel's song, alas! is hushed,
That all her tales of triumph told,
And mute is every voice that gushed
In music to her harps of gold;
And could my lyre attune its string,
To loftier themes we loved of yore,
Alas, my lips could only sing
All that we were but are no more,
Our hearts are still by Jordan's stream,
And there our footsteps fain would be,
But oh, 'tis like the captive's dream
Of home his eyes may never see.
A cloud is on our father's graves,
And darkly spreads o'er Zion's hill,
And there their sons must stand as slaves,
Or roam like houseless wanderers still.

Yet where the rose of Sharon blooms,
And cedars wave the stately head,
Even now from out the place of tombs
Breaks the deep voice that stirs the dead.
Through the wide world's tumultuous roar,
Floats clear and sweet the solemn word, —
" Oh, virgin-daughter, faint no more,
Thy tears are seen, thy prayers are heard:
What though, with spirits crushed and broke,
Thy tribes like desert exiles rove,
Though Judah feels the stranger's yoke,
And Ephraim is a heartless dove;
Yet, yet, shall Judah's Lion wake,
Yet shall the day of promise come,
Thy sons from iron bondage break,
And God shall lead the wanderers home. "