Classic Poem

Lo, as the poet finds at will
Than tenderest words a tenderer still
For one beside him prest;
So from the Lord a mercy flows,
A sweeter balm from Sharon's rose,
For her that loves him best.

And ere the early throstles stir
With some sweet word from God for her
The morn returns anew;
For her His face in the east is fair,
For her His breath is in the air,
His rainbow in the dew.

At such an hour the promise falls
With glory on the narrow walls,
With strength on failing breath;
There comes a courage in her eyes,
It gathers for the great emprize,
The deeds of after death.

Albeit thro' this preluding woe
Subdued and softly she must go
With half her music dumb,
What heavenly hopes to her belong,
And what a rapture, what a song,
Shall greet His kingdom come!

So climbers by some Alpine mere
Walk very softly thro' the clear
Unlitten dawn of day;
The morning star before them shows
Beyond the rocks, beyond the snows,
Their never-travelled way.

Or so, ere singers have begun,
The master-organist has won
The folk at eve to prayer:
So soft the tune, it only seems
The music of an angel's dreams
Made audible in air.

But when the mounting treble shakes,
When with a noise the anthem wakes
A song forgetting sin, —
Thro' all her pipes the organ peals,
With all her voice at last reveals
The storm of praise within.

The trump! the trump! how pure and high!
How clear the fairy flutes reply!
How bold the clarions blow!
Nor God Himself has scorned the strain,
But hears it and shall hear again,
And heard it long ago.