What was thy year, thy month, thy day of birth, That we may mark it in our Calendar, “On this day, in a year before the Flood, Jubal was born, Inventor of the Harp?” Where shall we seek this knowledge? Of the stars? ’Tis said by some our hearts and brains depend Upon the union in their mystic dance They happen to be forming at the hour When we are born. Then we shall ask the stars. For they may recollect the year and hour They formed that wondrous figure when the power Of music touched the soul of man For the first time, and if they can, ’Twas then that Jubal’s life began! Sibyl-stars, that sing the chorus Of the life that lies before us As we open mortal eyes! Strange phrenologists of Heaven, That infuse the spirit-leaven Into nascent, infant brains, That can make them dull or wise, Forging subtle mental chains That must bind us until death, As ye calmly glitter o’er us, When we draw our primal breath! Mixing qualities together, Just according to the weather, Just according to the season, And the point of daily time, Noon or even, night or morn, That we happen to be born, For some sage, sidereal reason, Which some sophomores call “chance,” Some the “force of circumstance!” Tell, O fatal stars, sublime, What the swelling of the chime Into which you wove your dance, What the day and what the hour, Was so happy as to dower Earth with Music’s heavenly power! Tell the day of Jubal’s birth, Day of Jubilee to earth. Was the “music of the spheres” Audible to mortal ears? Did the winds of Heaven sing Till the forests clapped their hands? Did the ocean, heralding, Bear the tidings to all lands, Whispering, “Rejoice, rejoice,” Till the earth, unprisoning All her sounds, became a Voice? As the soaring of his wing When the distant eagle moves, Wakes to life the silent groves, At the coming of their king! Sibyl-stars, was this the way That Earth greeted Jubal’s day? In those far shadowy years before the Flood Jubal was born, and this is all we know; Born in the land where Cain, in solitude And occupation sought to hide his woe Born with a gift, well-used, of sin the foe, A heaven-sent harbinger of promised good. Oh! was not Adah happy in her boy? Oh! who could tell the secret of her joy, When, with a mother’s love, she pierced the veil That childhood draws round genius, lest it fail In its high aim, by adulation fed, And only feel the poison, when ’tis dead?