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144       SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.

The sword may sever slavery's chain,
The strong arm crush the tyrant's reign,
As lightning from the lurid sky 
Shatters and scathes the Temple high;—
But 'tis the sweet-voiced Spring that calls 
The ivy o'er the broken walls, 
And gently swaying in the blasts, 
The fragile plant the Pile outlasts.

And thus the power of Music's breath 
Re-clothes the wastes of Time and Death.
The "blind old man" begins his strain,
And Greece is "living Greece" again! 
The Songs that flow'd on Zion's Hill 
Are chanted in God's Temple still,
And to the eye of faith unfold 
The glories of His House of old!

Each Prophet-Bard of ancient days 
Still breathes for us his lofty lays;
The words that bear a mission high,
If Music-hallow'd, never die;—
And thus Religion, Law and Art,
Sow their choice seeds in every heart;
From age to age the Song flows on,
And blends fresh life with glories gone.

A mystery this—but who can see  
The soft south wind that sways the tree, 
And warms its vital flood to flow,
And wakes its folded buds to blow?— 
Even thus the Power of Music, felt,
The soul is sway'd, the heart will melt,
Till Love and Hope so bless the Hours, 
Life's dial-plate is mark'd by flowers.


SARAH JOSEPHA HALE.      145

And every Temple Art has rear'd 
Some truth has taught, some error clear'd; 
But only Music's voice leads on,
When Time is o'er and Heaven is won; 
The Angel-Art to mortals taught—
The golden chord of human thought,
When pure, and tuned by Faith and Love, 
Link'd with the golden harps above!

IT SNOWS.

"It snows!" cries the School-boy—"hurrah!" and his shout 
Is ringing through parlour and hall, 
While swift, as the wing of a swallow, he's out, And his playmates have answer'd his call: 
It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy; 
Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow, 
Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy, 
As he gathers his treasure of snow. 
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, 
While health and riches of Nature are theirs.

"It snows!" sighs the Imbeciles—"Ah!" and his breath 
Comes heavy, as clogg'd with a weight; 
While from the place aspect of Nature in death, 
He turns to the blaze of his grate; 
And nearer, and nearer, his soft cushion'd chair 
Is wheel'd toward the life-giving flame—
He dreads a chill puff of the snow-burden'd air, 
Lest it wither his delicate frame: 
Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give, 
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

"It snows!" cries the Traveller—"Ho!" and the word 
Has quicken'd his steed's lagging pace;

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Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 13:51:45 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 16:39:13