The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1839-03-16

No poetry in Paradise What! none
Where in prmeval glory the sun
Where man held commune with the God ofheaven
At dawn of morn, and mid the shades of even
Where regal night in peerless beauty shone,
When from their vault the stars look d down.
Those silent watchers, whose calm, holy rays
Thrill to the soul, as 'twere a seraph's gaze,
Searching the heart-depths, and beholding there
All that was hidden from the daylight's glare.
No poetry in Eden where the flowers
Clustered and blossom d from their native bowers
Where heavenly breezes famed them into BIRTH
Borne by the hands of angels to the earth
Planted for man, that every where his eyes
Might rest on beauties breathing of the skies;
l4ading with odors every truant wind
That kissed the messy stalk reclined,
Or sought the violet in its lowy bed,
And gently bent the lilly's dew-gemm'd head
No poetry in Eden ?-where the song
From thousand warbling throats borne along
In full chorus, harmonious swell,
From sunny upland, shady grove, and dell;
Where Natures harp-strngs, swept by every breeze,
Thrilled with all low and gentle harmonies,
And from the altar of mans heart the prayer
Responsive upon the bamy air;
Where lay reflected in the waters blue
a silvery bow-a heaven of oloudless hue
Or orient tint, where glimpses might be caught
Ofrainbow-wngs-bri tight forms that love had bro't
From upper Eden, first to gaze upon
Their Maker ssimage, and to hear the tone
or brothers. voice uprising to the sky,
Like them the heir of immortality;
No poetry in Eden ?-none where love
Flowed from the pure and holy fount above'
All things grew fairer to tn enamored view,
Earth, and sky wore all one gorgeous hue;
Mountain and valley, bower and lake rife
With countless beauties bursting into life
Joy a rose-hued wreath to crown the hours
And Love lay nestled mid the blooming flowers;
No care, doubt, no dark suspicion
To dim the sunlight Of the hearts repose.
And now, when sin and suffering shed heiI blight,
When Eden's bowers lost to mortal sight,
If, mid the ruins of our fallen state
Man finds the beautiful, the pure, the great
Sees snow-topped mountains in their grandeur rse
Formed by the hand divine that arched the skies
Rude, rushing torrents from the rocks rebound,
And, startled, hears the laundering crash Of sound,
Gathers wild daisies on the green hillside,
Or seeks nook where gentle rvulets glide
Watches the morning radiance streaming
The waters flashing in the noon-day
Longs for the wings of birds, to soar away,
And float mid glories of the dying day
Revels at midnight in ideal Dreams
Sees airy shapes upon the pale moonbeams-
Feels in his heart fount of kindness spring
UnchiIled, though his young hopes lie whitening;
If thus the heavenly, the pure, the sweet,
In this world around mans pathway meet,
And poetry makes all seem hallowed ground.
Say, was there none in Times fresh morning found'
No poetry in Eden All things fair.
Bright, brilliant, lovely, were concentred there
Soft myrmurng fount, and fragrant zephyr's sigh;
The voice of love-the thrill of ecsacy;
Dark, solemn groves and tree tops starred with gold
Warm, purple clouds, like issued robes unrolled;
Gay-plumaged birds, with waving pinions free;-
Oh, these all unwritten poetry
And these there-and mans aspiring soul;
All formed in Paradise one glorious whole }. c