Page:Near nature's heart; a volume of verse (IA nearnaturesheart00jack).pdf/39

 Like cooling streams in a parched, desert land, To thirsting souls and worn; Like evening's changing charms, no artist's hand Can set in painted bourn;

Like sweetest dreams to troubled hearts in slumbers, Uplift to heaven's heights— Just so thy symphonies, heard in rolling numbers, Thy high and holy flights.

O anchoret, near Nature's heart, again I pray, come forth and sing. Ah, there—O joy! I glimpsed thee, Hermit fain— Now gone on gentle wing.

My eye too piercing, and my quest too keen, Unfathomable bird. Once more contented I—remain unseen, And yet thy harmony heard.

This I have found, as fast thou holdeth me: Thou startest full, and risest; And all doth thrill—sweet, moving melody, Climbing to the highest.

No pipe, no flute, organ or organist, Can reach thine allegro, And thy cadenza, thou transcendentalist— 'Tis music with naught of woe.

Whence come from singers proud their hard-won notes? In truth from the music master, By repetition oft and untrained throats— To hearers, near disaster.

The master's whence, the singing pioneer, Great Haydn or Beethoven? Sing on, my thrilling thrush, but wilt thou hear? From thee, and thou from Heaven!

Long hours I've listened lone, in deep delight, To thy glad musicals; And when I breathe my last, O anchorite, Sing soft angelicals.