THE INVOCATION. ANSWER me, burning stars of night! In light and power on high, Ask things that cannot die!" Oh! many-toned and chainless wind! Tell me if thou its place canst find, "The blue deep I have crossed, And met its barks and billows high, But not what thou hast lost!" Ye clouds that gorgeously repose Answer! have ye a home for those Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer,― But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears,- but all are thine. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee,-but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, The bright clouds answered,-"We And flowers to wither at the north depart, We vanish from the sky; Ask what is deathless in thy heart For that which cannot die!" wind's breath, And stars to set,- but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. We know when moons shall wane, Speak, then, thou voice of God When summer-birds from far shall within! Thou of the deep low tone! Answer me through life's restless din, Where is the spirit flown? And the voice answered, "Be thou still! Enough to know is given; cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,— But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Clouds, winds, and stars their task Comes forth to whisper where the Thou hast all seasons for thine own, And the world calls us forth,— and oh! Death. thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Lift up your hearts!- though yet no Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend sorrow lies Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes; The skies, and swords beat down the Though fresh within your breasts the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set,- but all, untroubled springs Of hope make melody where'er ye tread; And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread; Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Yet in those flute-like voices, ming oh! Death. ling low, Is woman's tenderness,- how soon her woe. Her lot is on you,-silent tears to weep, And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour, And sumless riches, from affection's deep, To pour on broken reeds,-a wasted shower! [clay, And to make idols, and to find them And to bewail that worship,-therefore pray! Her lot is on you,-to be found untired, Watching the stars out by the bed of pain, With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired, And a true heart of hope, though Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer hope be vain. [decay, And oh! to love through all things,therefore pray! And take the thought of this calm vesper time, With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light, On through the dark days fading from their prime, As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight. Earth will forsake,-oh! happy to have given The unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven! |