Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/68

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to thy lonely bower, thou who dost love The hour of musing. Come, before the brow Of twilight darkens, or the solemn stars Look from their casement. 'Mid that hush of soul Music from viewless harps shall visit thee, Such as thou never heard'st amid the din Of earth's coarse enginery, by toil and care Urged on, without reprieve. Ah! kneel and catch That tuneful cadence. It shall wing thy thought Above the jarring of this time-worn world, And give the key-tone of that victor-song Which plucks the sting from death. How closely wrapt In quiet slumber are all things around! The vine-leaf, and the willow-fringe stir not, Nor doth the chirping of the feeblest bird, Nor even the cold glance of the vestal moon, Disturb thy reverie. Yet dost thou think To be alone?—In fellowship more close Than man with man, pure spirits hover near Prompting to high communion with the Source Of every perfect gift. Lift up the soul! For 'tis a holy pleasure thus to find Its melody of musing so allied To pure devotion. Give thy prayer a voice; Claiming Heaven's blessing on these sacred hours Which in the world's warped balance weighed, might yield But sharp derision. Sure they help to weave