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476 AMELIA B. WELBY The spirit oft oppress'd with doubt, May strive to cast Thee from its thought, But who can shut thy presence out, Thou mighty Guest that com'st unsought! In spire of all our cold resolves, Whate'er our thoughts, where'er we be, Still magnet-like the heart revolves, And points, all trembling, up to Thee; We cannot shield a troubled breast Beneath the confines of the bless'd, Above, below, on earth, in air, For Thou the living God art there. Yet, far beyond the clouds outspread, Where soaring fancy oft hath been, There is a land where thou hast said The pure of heart shall enter in; In those fair realms so calmly bright How many a loved and gentle one Bathes its soft plumes in living light That sparkles from Thy radiant Throne. There souls, once soft and sad as ours Look up and sing 'mid fadeless flowers- They dream no more of grief and care, For Thou, the God of peace, art there. THE FREED BIRD. THY cage is open'd, bird! too well I love thee To bar the sunny things of earth from thee; A whole broad heaven of blue lies calm above thee; The green-wood waves beneath, and thou art free; These slender wires shall prison thee no more- Up, bird! and 'mid the clouds thy thrilling music pour. AMELIA B. WELBY. 477 Away! away! the laughing waters, playing, Break on the fragrant shore in ripples blue, And the green leaves unto the breeze are laying Their shining edges, fringed with drops of dew; And, here and there, a wild flower lifts its head, Refresh'd with sudden life from many a sunbeam shed. How sweet thy voice will sound! for o'er yon river The wing of silence, like a dream, is laid, And naught is heard save where the wood-boughs quiver, Making rich spots of trembling light and shade. And a new rapture thy wild spirit fills, For joy is on the breeze, and morn upon the hills. Now, like the aspen, plays each quivering feather Of thy swift pinion, bearing thee along, Up, where the morning stars once sang together, To pour the fulness of thine own rich song; And now thou'rt mirror'd to my dazzled view, A little dusky speck amid a world of blue. Yet I will shade mine eye and still pursue thee, As thou dost melt in soft ethereal air, Till angel-ones, sweet bird, will bend to view thee, And cease their hymns awhile thine own to share; And there thou art, with light clouds round thee furl'd, Just poised beneath yon vault, that arches o'er the world. A free wild spirit unto thee is given, Bright minstrel of the blue celestial dome! For thou wilt wander to yon upper heaven, And bathe thy plumage in the sunbeam's home; And, soaring upward from thy dizzy height On free and fearless wing, be lost to human sight. Late of the summer clouds! whilst thou art singing Unto thy Maker thy soft matin hymn,
Transcription Notes:
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 09:18:34
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Reopened for Editing 2023-06-30 08:28:58