Harry | Page 4

and may flow?In solemn silence with never a sound.
For sound is but the vibrations of air?That strike on the drum of the living ear;?So if never a living ear is there,?There is nothing to strike and nothing to hear.
Though the vibrations move on, and live,?And thus the law of their being obey,?'Tis the ear produces the sound they give--?That's what I heard a philosopher say.
So if thunder, roll'd through quivering air,?With that awful silence reigning around,?And you or I suddenly landed there,?All Nature would break at once into sound.
It seems very strange and eerie, you know;?I don't understand how it is--do you??But a philosopher said it, so?I really suppose that it must be true.
And is not there something in human hearts?(Mountains, you know, must spring out of the flat)?That at Love's light touch into music starts??Ah, what would philosophers say to that?
There never was summer so bright as this,?And the world will always be burnished thus;?For if Love the magical painter is,?He for ever will paint the same for us.
'Tis a light within that illumes the land;?And free as the birds from sorrow or strife,?Very close together, and hand in hand,?We shall walk on through unlimited life.
'Ah, Harry!' I cried, 'I shall lean on you!?'Tis the purest joy to look up so high;?You will teach me all that I ought to do;?On your noble strength can my steps rely.
I hope that you know I am very weak,?Only a poor little thing at the best;?But children can love before they can speak,?And I hope that love will make up the rest.'
Oh beautiful pathway, untouched by care;?Oh you scattered roses on which we tread;?You lead to a church with its holy prayer,?And its Heaven-blessing over us shed!
Nightingales singing an exquisite tune?All the sweet music for me and for you,?Saying my prayers by the light of the moon,?Happy the prayers that are utter'd for two!
Stars in the depth of a fathomless space,?Summer-blue sky by no shadow o'ercast,?Joy pointing on to a far-away grace?Brighter than e'en the beneficent past;
Trouble to measureless distances fled,?Death too remote to be worthy a sigh--?Can there be any one sorry or dead??Sorrow or death 'neath a summer-blue sky!
Was there a moment we never had met??Was there a time unexalted by him??Shone the same lustre in suns when they set??Sparkled the river with joy to the brim?
Glitter'd the blue over heaven and sea??Flutter'd the birds to a musical call??Could he be happy unconscious of me??And, without Harry, what was I at all?
I stand on a rock where two rivers meet,?With a life behind and a life before;?And one is ebbing away from my feet,?And the other is rising more and more.
Ah, poor little maiden! ah, dear little wife!?Ah, days that are past and days that will come!?The past is nothing--this only is life;?I am going with him and am going HOME.
And such a sweet pretty home as it is!?What shall I do with my exquisite bliss??How can I ever be charming enough,?Where rumpling a roseleaf will make the path rough??How can I thank the great Father above?For showing His child such abundance of love??With Harry a home in a hovel were sweet,?And this is a palace that lies at my feet.
I look at the gardens spread out in the sun,?Where every rosebud a prize might have won;?Where lilies lift up tinted crowns to the skies,?And clematis strike you aghast by their size;?Where lawns smooth as ice tempt your feet as they pass,?Though only a fairy should tread on such grass;?And big forest trees on the slopes, spread afar?Those branches that grander than anything are.
I sweep through the rooms where the mirrors portray?A slender young thing in a robe of pale gray,?And catching quick glimpses, now here and now there,?I own with delight she is graceful and fair;?I study the creature, and smile as I see?How handsome a woman one day she may be;?I draw myself up with a stately expanse?And try to look grand, while I'm longing to dance;?I flourish, I curtsey, I slip and I slide;--?This will do for a wife, this is fit for a bride.?I smile and I bow, in a dignified way,?And even shake hands with the lady in gray;?Then draw back astonish'd, afraid to offend,?It is all a mistake, and she is not a friend.?In a moment sweeps over the vision a change?Deliciously sweet and suddenly strange,?A blush in the cheek and a light in the eyes;--?A step in the passage, to meet it she flies,?And still in the mirror I mark the embrace,?Where the strong manly arms hide the small blushing face.
When the sun rises early to call people out,?There is nothing so sweet as to wander about,?A hand on an arm or an arm round a waist,?In lover-like leisure or holiday haste.?Then, all is delightful we see or we hear,?And speaking or silence