Our grosser nature ever strives to win us From worship of the beautiful and bright, And deaf are many to the voice within us That whispers “_seek the light!_” Not they alone work faithfully who labor On the dull, dusty thoroughfare of life; The clerkly pen can vanquish when the sabre Is useless in the strife. In cloistered gloom the quiet man of letters, Launching his thoughts like arrows from the bow, Oft strikes at Treason, and his base abettors, Bringing their grandeur low. Armed with a scroll, the birds of evil omen That curse a country he can scare away, Or in the wake of Error marshal foemen Impatient for the fray. Scorn not the Sons of Song! or deem them only Poor, worthless weeds upon the shore of Time; Although they move in walks retired and lonely, They have their tasks sublime. When tyrants tread the hill-top and the valley, Calling the birth-right of the brave their own, Around the tomb of Liberty they rally, And roll away the stone:— Or, roused by some dark peril, they have written Words that awe Guilt behind his guarded wall, Or, by the lightning of their numbers smitten, Beheld the Bigot fall. Though fierce, unbridled passions, running riot, Hiss like Medusa’s vipers in the breast, The witchcraft of harmonic sound can quiet The turmoil into rest. Who through the chieftain’s castle-hall is stealing With the light foot-fall of some beast of prey, While vengeance hushes every softer feeling, Nerving his arm to slay? Where is his home? To flame its roof was given, And heavy clouds above the ruin lower— While the dread foe, by whom his soul was riven, Unwarned, is in his power. Where are his kinsmen? Ask the fox and raven That feed upon their corpses gashed and red; And will he now turn back a trembling craven— What, what arrests his tread? Young Annot Lyle, her Highland clairshack waking, Trills an old ballad to remembrance dear— And dagger-hilt his rugged hand forsaking Brushes away the tear. Lo! the proud Norman and his host are flying, While in pursuit, with fierce, triumphant cheers, That drown the groans of horse and rider dying, Press on the Saxon spears. What stays their flight? The song of Rolla rising In angry swell above the dreadful roar— Again they charge!—the bolts of death despising, And Harold’s reign is o’er. Dread Power of Song! whose voice can thus awaken Notes that consign an empire to the grave; Or, when recoils a host by panic shaken, From rout the valiant save. The fearful mantle that the seer is wearing Derives from thee its tints of living fire— And higher mounts Philosophy when sharing The wealth of thy attire: