THE power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore, And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken From some bright former state, our own no more; Is not this all a mystery? Who shall say Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way? The sudden images of vanished things That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why; Tones from some broken harp's deserted strings, Warm sunset hues of summers long gone by; A rippling wave -- the dashing of an oar -- A flower-scent floating past our parents' door; A word -- scarce noted in its hour perchance, Yet back returning with a plaintive tone; A smile -- a sunny or a mournful glance, Full of sweet meanings now from this world flown; Are not these mysteries when to life they start, And press vain tears in gushes from the heart? And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, Calling up shrouded faces from the dead, And with them bringing soft or solemn gleams, Familiar objects brightly to o'erspread; And wakening buried love, or joy, or fear -- These are night's mysteries -- who shall make them clear? And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which naught can drown or still, 'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus? 'Tis mystery all! Darkly we move -- we press upon the brink Haply of viewless worlds, and know it not; Yes! it may be, that nearer than we think Are those whom death has parted from our lot! Fearfully, wondrously, our souls are made -- Let us walk humbly on, but undismayed! Humbly -- for knowledge strives in vain to feel Her way amidst these marvels of the mind; Yet undismayed -- for do they not reveal The immortal being with our dust entwined? So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. |