Poems (Gould, 1833)/Forest Music

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FOREST MUSIC.
There 's a sad loneliness about my heart,—A deep, deep solitude the spirit feelsAmid this multitude. The things of artPall on the senses—from its pageantry,Loathing, my eye turns off; and my ear shrinksFrom the harsh dissonance that fills the air.
My soul is growing sick—I will awayAnd gather balm from a sweet forest walk!There, as the breezes through the branches sweep,Is heard aerial minstrelsy, like harpsUntouched, unseen, that on the spirit's earPour out their numbers till they lull to peaceThe tumult of the bosom. There 's a voiceOf music in the rustling of the leaves;And the green boughs are hung with living lutes,Whose strings will only vibrate to his handWho made them, while they sound his untaught praise!
The whole wild wood is one vast instrumentOf thousand, thousand keys; and all its notesCome in sweet harmony, while Nature playsTo celebrate the presence of her God!
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