Unto the loud acclaim that rose
To greet her as she came,
She bent with lowly grace that seemed
Such tribute to disclaim;
With arms meek folded on her breast
And drooping head, she stood;
Then raised a glance that seemed to plead
For youth and womanhood;
A soft, beseeching smile, a look,
As if all silently
The kindness to her heart she took,
And put the homage by.
She stood dejected then, methought,
A Captive, though a Queen,
Before the throng, when sudden passed
A change across her mien.
Unto her full, dilating eye,
Unto her slender hand,
There came a light of sovereignty,
A gesture of command:
And, to her lip, an eager flow
Of song, that seemed to bear
Her soul away on rushing wings
Unto its native air;
Her eye was fixed; her cheek flushed bright
With power; she seemed to call
On spirits that around her flocked,
The radiant Queen of all;
There was no pride upon her brow,
No tumult in her breast;
Her soaring soul had won its home,
And smiled there as at rest;
She felt no more those countless eyes
Upon her; she had gained
A region where they troubled not
The joy she had attained!
Now, now, she spoke her native speech,
An utterance fraught with spells
To wake the echoes of the heart
Within their slumber-cells;
For at her wild and gushing strain,
The spirit was led back
By windings of a silver chain,
On many a long-lost track;
And many a quick unbidden sigh,
And starting tear, revealed
How surely at her touch the springs
Of feeling were unsealed;
They who were always loved, seemed now
Yet more than ever dear;
Yet closer to the heart they came,
That ever were so near:
And, trembling to the silent lips,
As if they ne’er had changed
Their names, returned in kindness back
The severed and estranged;
And in the strain, like those that fall
On wanderers as they roam,
The Exiled Spirit found once more
Its country and its home!
She ceased, yet on her parted lips
A happy smile abode,
As if the sweetness of her song
Yet lingered whence it flowed;
But, for a while, her bosom heaved,
She was the same no more,
The light and spirit fled; she stood
As she had stood before;
Unheard, unheeded to her ear
The shouts of rapture came,
A voice had once more power to thrill,
That only spoke her name.
Unseen, unheeded at her feet,
Fell many a bright bouquet;
A single flower, in silence given,
Was once more sweet than they;
_Her_ heart had with her song returned
To days for ever gone,
Ere Woman’s gift of Fame was her’s,
The Many for the One.
E’en thus; O, Earth, before thee
Thy Poet Singers stand,
And bear the soul upon their songs
Unto its native land.
And even thus, with loud acclaim,
The praise of skill, of art,
Is dealt to those who only speak
The language of the heart!
While they who love and listen best,
Can little guess or know
The wounds that from the Singer’s breast
Have bid such sweetness flow;
They know not mastership must spring
From conflict and from strife.
“These, these are but the songs they sing;”
They are the Singer’s life!