Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SING ON!, by LYDIA JANE PEIRSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SING ON!, by                    
First Line: Tis not for fame: I know I may not win
Last Line: The pure bright river of eternal life.
Alternate Author Name(s): Wheeler, Lydia Jane
Subject(s): Fame; Reputation


'T IS not for Fame: I know I may not win
A wreath from high Parnassus, for my name
Is written on the page of humble life,
From which the awarders of the laurel wreath
Avert their eyes with scorning.
I have felt
The mildew of affliction, the east wind
Of withering contempt, the pelting storms
Of care, and toil, and bitterness, and wo,
In almost every form. I too have known
The darkness of bereavement, and keen pangs
Which woman may not utter, though her heart
Consume amid their fierceness, and her brain
Burn to a living cinder; though the wound
Which is so hard to bear, lie festering deep
Within her outraged spirit; though her sighs
Disturb the quiet of the blessed night,
While sweet dews cool and soothe the fever'd breast
Of every other mourner; though she pour
The flood of life's sweet fountain out in tears
Along her desert pathway; while the blooms
Of health, and hope, and joy, that should have fed
Upon its gushing waters and rich dew,
Lie wither'd in her bosom, breathing forth
The odours of a crush'd and wasted heart,
That cannot hope for soothing or redress,
Save in the quiet bosom of the grave,
And in the heaven beyond.
'T is not for Fame
That I awaken with my simple lay
The echoes of the forest. I but sing
As sings the bird, that pours her native strain,
Because her soul is made of melody;
And lingering in the bowers, her warblings seem
To gather round her all the tuneful forms,
Whose bright wings shook rich incense from the flowers,
And balmy verdure of the sweet young spring,
O'er which the glad day shed his brightest smile,
And night her purest tears. I do but sing
Like that sad bird, who in her loneliness
Pours out in song the treasures of her soul,
Which else would burst her bosom, which has nought
On which to lavish the warm streams that gush
Up from her trembling heart, and pours them forth
Upon the sighing winds, in fitful strains.

Perchance one pensive spirit loves the song,
And lingers in the twilight near the wood
To list her plaintive sonnet, which unlocks
The sealed fountain of a hidden grief. --
That pensive listener, or some playful child,
May miss the lone bird's song, what time her wings
Are folded in the calm and silent sleep,
Above her broken heart. Then, though they weep
In her deserted bower, and hang rich wreaths
Of ever-living flowers upon her grave,
What will it profit her who would have slept
As deep and sweet without them?
Oh! how vain
With promised garlands for the sepulchre,
To think to cheer the soul, whose daily prayer
Is but for bread and peace! -- whose trembling hopes
For immortality ask one green leaf
From off the healing trees that grow beside
The pure bright river of Eternal Life.





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