All gentle sounds nestled within his heart, But not alone (though these he loved the most) Were gentle sounds the study of the boy. The mournful requiem of the dying leaves,-- The piping gales that make the forest dance,-- The tempest’s rage, to which the pine and oak Are but as playthings to an angry child: The rain, the whirlwind and the thundercrash,-- The mountain torrent, “the vexed ocean’s roar,”-- The noisy lapping of the tongues of fire,-- The howl of hungry, ravenous beasts of prey,-- All that is sad or mad in Nature’s voice,-- All that reminds us of the awful words That pierced the fancied hiding place of sin, Ere yet the curse descended,--these he knew. For, in those giant days before the Flood, Nature and man were ever face to face, Till Art grew, Nature’s image, in man’s heart. So Jubal revelled in all sweet, grand sounds, A seeming spendthrift, but with miser craft, Locking his airy jewels in the casket Of lovingest remembrance,--till the boy Dreamed himself into manhood. Then there weighed Upon his brain the burden of a thought,-- To bring to life the music that his soul Had gathered from the music of the world,-- To make, by cunning union, every tone Of its great voice obedient to his will. And so he planned, awake, and, sleeping, dreamed Of this, his one idea; till at last ’Neath his creative hand the “Harp” was born. And then he planned again, for life was long In those far, shadowy years before the Flood, Until the “Organ,” in its mighty heart, Echoed the throbbings of the heart of man. APOLLO DROPT A SEED OF SONG. I. Apollo dropt a seed of song Into my heart one day, And, smiling godlike, passed along Upon his heavenly way. II. I saw him make his golden arc, For many a weary day, But still the little seedling, dark Lay hid beneath the clay. III. But gentle eyes, one joyous hour, Shone where my seedling lay,-- O Love, tend well thy little flower, And let it not decay. VOX DEI. The beauteous pyramid of harmless flame Spelled G O D for Moses; but the thundered law Was needed for the wild, unruly crowd. The awful test of swift-consuming fire Alone shewed Baal false to Baal’s friends; The “still, small voice” touched lone Elijah’s heart. So God speaks variously to various men: To some in nature’s sternest parables; To others, in the breath that woos the flowers, Until they blush and pale, and blush again. To _these_ the Decalogue were just as true If uttered on a summer Sabbath-day In village church--to _those_ there is no God, Till fiery rain has scarred the face of earth. THE OLD WAR-HORSE. I.