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THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL
THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT,
The King of men, the loved of Heaven,
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given,
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
It softened men of iron mould,
them virtues not their own;
dull, no soul so cold,
That felt not, fired not to the tone,
Till David's Lyre grew mightier than his throne!
It told the triumphs of our King,
It wafted glory to our God;
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Devotion and her daughter Love
To sounds that seem as from above, In dreams that day's broad light can not remove. IF THAT HIGH WORLD,
IF THAT HIGH WORLD, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving Love endears ; If there the cherish'd heart be fond, The
eye the same, except in tears— How welcome those untrodden spheres !
How sweet this very hour to die!
To soar from earth and find all fears
Lost in thy light-Eternity!
It must be so : 'tis not for self
That we so tremble on the brink;
And striving to o'erleap the gulph,
Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think