Gift in Trust, A

My silent friend! the power of rhythmic words,
   Like the swift pinions of the carrier-dove,
   Is given to wing the messages of love
High o'er the dusty paths of plodding herds:
But poets carol, like the morning birds
   Translating light to music, not alone
   For joy of song in chancels of their own,
But for all souls the blue pavilion girds!
Thine are the lark-notes of the bards of old;
   Thine the last hymning of the Sons of Song;
To them who loved them most, the anthems rolled
   Through heaven's grand temple-dome, the most belong:
   And they who sing are but the vocal tongue
Of the mute world, for whom this sacred trust they hold !

Let them not enter to that solemn hall
   Where Dante trod, and Milton's sightless eyes
   Saw the ineffable splendor; nor where dies,
In far, faint echoes, the last madrigal
That soothed the love-lorn Petrarch,— till there fall
   On their uplifted brows the light of skies
   Deeper than ours, and the anointing, wise,
Of consecration to the Best in all!
The mute are wronged when folly finds a tongue ;
   And all the yearning voicelessness of things
Up-reaching for a language, feels the wrong
   If Nature's laureate to no dumb heart sings;
Sick with melodious grief, the Soul of Song
Soars with her lark to heaven on swift, invisible wings!