THE HARP OF THE WEST.

Fair Clime of the sunset! more richly endowed

Than Hispan’ the knightly, or Gallia the proud —

Where the lakes of old Scotia are lost in the maze

Of thy thousand that mirror their heavy fringed banks

Of mountain and crag, and the stateliest ranks

That ever stood sentinel-watch to the gaze

Of a sky bending closer, and breathing more near

Than the heart ever throbbed to the fall of a tear.

Though the soul be as barren as Gobi's bleak heath

And the spirit of song in the cold throes of death,

Can humanity throttle the play of the breeze

O'er the harp that old Nature unwittingly strung,

When the windows of Heaven wide open were flung,

For a thousand years to thy masterful trees?

Can the ear fail to hear, or the eye fail to see

Thy rich crown! thy sweet song! great Yo Semite?

Though the brow of Olympus be crowded with thrones,

And the cliffs of Parnassus resound with the tones

Of the Muses that sang at the foot of their god,

Not Apollo's great steeds, nor the flame of his car,

Nor Mars, with the terrible glitter of war,

Can dazzle the face of thy sun and thy sod,

Bright Star of the West! Thou art Empire's own idol,

The steed of the lightning, untamed to the bridle!

What is History's wreath but a record of death!

Time breathes on the tablet, it fades with his breath;

But Nature has written in language so strong

That Eternity's finger alone can displace,

And write its own letters to fill up the space.

Our castles are mountains — our history, long,—

So long that we simply write God on the page,

And leave other Nations to guess at our age.

Our song is the present; God fills up the past,

With his rock-written letters; a volume so vast

No hand may transcribe what He leaves as his own.

From Sinai we came with his prophet of old,

To the valley where glitters the altar of gold —

Shall we break, in our frenzy, the tables of stone?

No! the letters are fresh, and deep graven the hand.

Far too sacred our charge! As He writ, let them stand!

When these tablets of Nature shall yield to the brain,

And some bard shall interpret the words they contain,

What a song shall burst forth from the prison of thought!

As his hand shall pass over the magical strings,

And each chord at his touch into unison springs,

As the wing of his impulse is hastily caught,

No harp more divine in the turn of the earth

Shall throb to the measures of sorrow and mirth!