THE HUMAN HARP.
There is a harp in each human breast,
The strings of which are never at rest;
Where music forever breathes and lingers,
Awaken'd by myriads of viewless fingers,
That play, like the hum of fairy wings,
Their notes on its thousand quivering strings.
This heav'n-born harp is a priceless boon
In its mortal frame, with its strings in tune;
But whether notes of this living harp
Be gentle or tender, flat or sharp,
When louder rung depends always
On the ear that hears, and the hand that plays.
How touchingly-tender is its moan,
As it gives to sorrow its monotone;
When touched by the palzied hand of Fear
It vibrates quick on the startled ear;
And its strong-wrought frame in frenzy leaps.
While Passion its diapason sweeps.
But happier spirits are hovering near,
And the music they play we love to hear;
They move all hearts with the grave and the gay.
And many a time Ive heard them play.
So often, too. are they playing the same,
That we know their touch, and call them by name.
There is Love, who comes on his fluttering wings,
And how it thrills when he touches the strings.
Fear thinks he is heard all over the land,
As he strikes the chords with a master's hand;
Put to Faith And Hope is the mission given
To touch the notes that are heard in heaven..
They bear it away when the rest are gone,
And lift the frail harp, broken And lone;
And when Death plays the last sad strain,
Breaking the chords he shall ne'er touch again,
They bear it away on joyous wing,
And string it anew where the angels sing.