Lyrics of the XIXth Century. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 1770-1850. INVOCATION. TO THE POWER OF SOUND. Thy functions are ethereal, As if within thee dwelt a glancing mind, Strict passage, through which sighs are brought, And shrieks that revel in abuse Of shivering flesh; and warbled air, Into the ambush of despair; Hozannas pealing down the long-drawn aisle ; The headlong streams and fountains Serve thee! Invisible Spirit! with untired powers: How fearful to the desert wide! That bleat, how tender! of the dam Toll from thy loftiest perch, lone bell-bird! toll, Mercy from her twilight throne Listening to nun's faint throb of holy fear, To sailor's prayer breathed from a darkening sea, Ye Voices! and ye Shadows And Images of Voice, to hound and horn From rocky steep and rock-bestudded meadows Then, or far earlier, let us rove Where mists are breaking up or gone, A liquid concert matchless by nice art, Bless'd be the song that brightens The blind man's gloom, exalts the veteran's mirth! Unscorn'd the peasant's whistling breath that lightens His duteous toil of furrowing the green earth! For the tired slave Song lifts the languid oar, And bids it aptly fall, with chime They move; but soon the appointed way Glisten with a livelier ray. Nor friendless he, the prisoner of the mine, Who from the well-spring of his own clear breast When civic renovation Dawns on a kingdom, and for needful haste Best eloquence avails not, Inspiration Of promises, shrill, wild and sweet. Incitements of a battle-day, Thrilling the unweapon'd crowd with plumeless heads? Even She whose Lydian airs inspire Peaceful striving, gentle play Of timid hope and innocent desire Shot from the dancing Graces as they move Fann'd by the plausive wings of Love. How oft along thy mazes, Regent of Sound! have dangerous passions trod. O thou! through whom the temple rings with praises, And blackening clouds in thunder speak of God, Betray not by the cozenage of sense Thy votaries, wooingly resign'd To a voluptuous influence That taints the purer, better mind; But lead sick Fancy to a harp That hath in noble tasks been tried! And, if the virtuous feel a pang too sharp, Soothe it into patience!—stay The uplifted arm of Suicide; And let some mood of thine in firm array Knit every thought the impending issue needs, Ere martyr burns or patriot bleeds! As Conscience to the centre Of Being smites with irresistible pain, By concords winding with a sway Or awed he weeps, struggling to quell dismay. Lodged above the starry pole? Pure modulations flowing from the heart Of Divine Love, where Wisdom, Beauty, Truth, With Order, dwell in endless youth. Oblivion may not cover All treasures hoarded by the miser Time. And voice and shell drew forth a tear The Gift to King Amphion, That wall'd a city with its melody, Was for belief no dream. Thy skill, Arion! Where men were monsters: a last grace he craves, So shall he touch at length a friendly strand, The pipe of Pan to shepherds Couch'd in the shadow of Mænalian pines This way and that, with wild-flowers crown'd. Of fable though to truth subservient! hear The convict's summons in the steeple's knell ; For terror, joy, or pity, Vast is the compass and the swell of notes: From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city |