Verwandte Artikel zu Poems; Patriotic, Religious
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Excerpt: ...with radiant tears That flow from a spell bound heart? Do they want a song that is only a song, With no mystical meanings rife? Or a music that solemnly moves along - The undertone of a life! Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules - A melody moves through my aged heart Not learned from the books or schools: A music I learned in the days long gone - I cannot tell where or how - But no matter where, it still sounds on Back of this wrinkled brow. And down in my heart I hear it still, Like the echoes of far-off bells; Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill Flowing through fairy dells. But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, And what the words of the old man's song? The world they tell me, is so giddy grown That thought is rare; And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone Hold empire there; That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; Can it be true That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, And wise are few? They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, With high and low; That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; Can it be so? That lofty principle hath long been dead And in a shroud; That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, Amid the crowd. They tell me, too, that few they are who own God's law and love; That thousands, living for this earth alone, Look not above; That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, Men tread the path, Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse Of his dead wrath. And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, Or to the few Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain Who still are true? No; not for the false shall I strike the strings Of the lyre that was mute so long; If I sing at all, the gray bard sings For the few and the true his song. And ah! there is many a changeful mood That over my spirit steals; Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, Whatever he dreams or feels. Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve...
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Excerpt: ...with radiant tears That flow from a spell bound heart? Do they want a song that is only a song, With no mystical meanings rife? Or a music that solemnly moves along - The undertone of a life! Well, then, I'll sing, though I know no art, Nor the poet's rhymes nor rules - A melody moves through my aged heart Not learned from the books or schools: A music I learned in the days long gone - I cannot tell where or how - But no matter where, it still sounds on Back of this wrinkled brow. And down in my heart I hear it still, Like the echoes of far-off bells; Like the dreamy sound of a summer rill Flowing through fairy dells. But what shall I sing for the world's gay throng, And what the words of the old man's song? The world they tell me, is so giddy grown That thought is rare; And thoughtless minds and shallow hearts alone Hold empire there; That fools have prestige, place and power and fame; Can it be true That wisdom is a scorn, a hissing shame, And wise are few? They tell me, too, that all is venal, vain, With high and low; That truth and honor are the slaves of gain; Can it be so? That lofty principle hath long been dead And in a shroud; That virtue walks ashamed, with downcast head, Amid the crowd. They tell me, too, that few they are who own God's law and love; That thousands, living for this earth alone, Look not above; That daily, hourly, from the bad to worse, Men tread the path, Blaspheming God, and careless of the curse Of his dead wrath. And must I sing for slaves of sordid gain, Or to the few Shall I not dedicate this Christmas strain Who still are true? No; not for the false shall I strike the strings Of the lyre that was mute so long; If I sing at all, the gray bard sings For the few and the true his song. And ah! there is many a changeful mood That over my spirit steals; Beneath their spell, and in verses rude, Whatever he dreams or feels. Whatever the fancies this Christmas eve...
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