Ah, when no lights of life remain, As dimly death’s cold draft we drain, How sweetly then will sound the strain From heaven through darkness winging, Where choirs above through endless years Praise love that ransoms all from fears Nor asks for aught, save what to seers Appears to be glad singing! But stay—to keep below with men The minstrel knows not how nor when. Here end I then—yet once again Let echoes answer, ringing To that which lulls the babe at birth, And voices all the good of earth, Gives God His glory, heaven its worth,— Eternal sway to singing! THE MUSIC OF LIFE. Music round the world is ringing, Sweeter ne’er is heard by man; Music angel hosts were singing, Ere the morning stars began; Sweeter ’tis than dreams of music, Music one awakes to hear Trailing on a train of echoes O’er a mild and moonlit meer; More it moves than martial marches, More than gleams of long-lost hope, More than suns to glory lifting Dew they draw from plain and slope; Music ’tis that thrills us only In the art that hearts control, When the breath of ardor holy Softly stirs a sighing soul. Music in the breast is bringing Every soul its own reward, Like the lute’s that tunes to singing Only tones that with it chord. Let the heart devoid of pleasure Throb as throbs its rhythmic beat, Soon will joys that none can measure Round it and within it meet,— Joys without in those about it, Joys within, that pulsing come, Firm of tread as warriors marching Where before them rolls the drum; Known by inward senses only, Only known like bliss above, Life of life and order holy, Sounds the music soft of love. MY IDEAL. She came: she went: ’twas all a dream, A groundless hope, a barren scheme; And yet a dearer dream did seem Than ever made a dawn seem drear. She tuned sweet music in my breast, Till every sad or joyous guest, That sway’d it once, with wondering rest, Grew hush’d as hate when heaven is near. She came: she went: a beam sublime That, straying toward a sunless clime, Trembled along the edge of Time And then in fright sped back amain. Ah, wherefore came she if to go! I had not known the half of woe Had I not felt that heavenly glow, And, match’d with it, found earth so vain. She came: she went: I know I dream’d; Nor dared to test fond hopes that gleam’d; But yet how dear the future seem’d, And, though it was the world, how real! Ah, wherefore did she leave so soon, And change to night what had been noon! Did Heaven sufficient deem the boon To grant to me a form ideal? CAGED.