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Until thy hand unlocked its store, What glorious music slept! Music that can be hushed no more Was from our knowledge kept. But the great Mother gave to thee The poet's universal key, And forth the fountains swept— A gushing melody for ever, The witness of thy high endeavour.

Rough is the road which we are sent, Rough with long toil and pain; And when upon the steep ascent, A little way we gain, Vexed with our own perpetual care, Little we heed what sweet things are Around our pathway blent; With anxious steps we hurry on, The very sense of pleasure gone.

But thou dost in this feverish dream Awake a better mood, With voices from the mountain stream, With voices from the wood. And with their music dost impart Their freshness to the world-worn heart, Whose fever is subdued By memories sweet with other years, By gentle hopes, and soothing tears.

A solemn creed is thine, and high, Yet simple as a child, Who looketh hopeful to yon sky With eyes yet undefiled. By all the glitter and the glare This life's deceits and follies wear, Exalted, and yet mild, Conscious of those diviner powers Brought from a better world than ours.