The Lost Poet

By Lydia Howard Sigourney

Up to the Spirit-land! the unfinish'd song
Still on thy lip, the breathing lyre
Warm in thy skillful hand,
A spell-bound throng
Intently listening to its thrilling wire;
Thus early call'd by the unerring Sire,
Up to the Spirit-land!

Up to the Spirit-land! thy soul inwrought
To harmony that nought could move,
Not earth's dense atmosphere, nor jarring thought,
Nor the crush'd vase of love,
Scarce could they weave one thread of mournful dye
Into thy woof of song,
For sunbeams kiss'd it from the sky,
Till finely blent and healthfully,
Its colors moved along.

Up to the Spirit-land!
Though we thy music ill can spare,
That charmed away our care.
Up! up! for she is there
O'er whom thy breaking heart-strings rang,
Whose image linger'd till thy latest pang;
She gives to thee her angel hand,
Go, minstrel go!
Though well we love to hear thy numbers flow,
Though still we need
In thy pure life to read
The example of a truthful soul,
Calm in its own communing with the skies,
We, o'er whose heads the sand-clouds roll
The sirochs of our desert way,
Whelming us, when we fain would rise
To wake the living lay!
Yet, minstrel, go!
To thy divine employ;
Leave us to mourn, Earth's lot is woe,
And Heaven's is joy.