New-York daily tribune. [volume] (New-York [N.Y.]) 1842-1866, 1848-12-29
CHANT Or a SOUL.
BY WILLIAM WALLACE.


Ny youth has gone--the glory, the delight
That gave new moons unto the night,
And pat IN every wind p tone
And presence that wls not It's own.
| can no more create, ltrOmp
What time the Autumn blows her solemn
And goes with golden pomp
Through our mme woods
can no more create, sitting IN youthful state
Above the mighty floods.
And peoplng glen, mud wave, and air.
With shapes that are immortal Then
The earth and heaven were FAIR, fellow men
While only less than gods seemed all my
. the delight-the glsdDess-
The sense yet love Of madness
The GLORIOUS choral exultatiOns-
The iar-oG sounding Of the banded nations
The wings o. angels at melodoUs sw eeps
Upon tho mountains hazy sleeps decps
The very dead astir within their coflined
The dreamy veil that wrapt the star and sod
A swathe Of purple gold and amethyst
And luminous behind the billowy mist, God.
Something that looked 10 my young eyes like
Too late learn nave not lived Alright
And hence the loss of that delight
Which put a moon into the moonefs NIGHT
| mingled in the human maze
sought their houid shrine
knelt before the impure blaze
made their idols mine.
lost mine early lOve--that hnd OF balms
Most musical with solemn psalms
Sounding beneath the tali and graceful PAINS
Who lives Alright
Answer me. all ye pyramids and piles
That look like caimest powern your still night
We also do ask, o continents aud isles
Blind though with blood ye be. free
Your tongues, II torn with pain. KNOW are
Then speak, all ancient masses speak
From patien, obehsk 10 Idle peak
There is heaying OF the pens
Atrailiug OF q shroud-
A clash OF bolts and CLANS chnad--
A low sad voice. tina, comes upon me- like a
80, NIsFRr o, MISERY -
Thou poor old Earth no more, no more
shall draw speech from thee,
y Nor dare Thy crypts Of legendary h1rc
let silence learn uo tongue Let night fold
every shore.
Yet have something lcft-tlo VIII.
That Mont Blanc OF the soul, Is towering stll.
And can bear the pain,
The storm, the old heroic chain
And with smile
Pluck wisdom from my torture. and give back
A love 20 Fate from tins my mountain rack.
dc believe the sad alone are wise.
! do believe the wrOnged alone can know
Why lives the word, why spread the burdened
And so from torture into godship grow lskies,
Palmer and palmer beams this trath the more
hear the slow, dull dripping Of my gore
And now arising from yon deep, steep
T is piain as white statse on tall dark
O, suffering souls q, spirits black
With storm on many a mountain rack
Your early splendors gone
Like stars into a cioud withdrawn
Like music laid asleep
In dried-up ountains-hke a stricken dawn.
AhaFa sn1Han Tan
hear the bolts around Us falling,
And cloud to cloud forever calling
Yet we must nor despair. nor weep
Did We tins evil bring
Or from our fellows did the torture spring
Ttans forgive forgive
q. know We not { is victory but To Ave
Therefore say, rejoice with harp aud voice
We are the prophets of the Beautiful.
And thou. o, Earth rejoice
With many waters rising like a voice
Thou too art full Of beauty. Thou
Though thorns are piercing thy pale brow
And thy deep, swial eyes look dull
Wherever beauty is, is hope
And thou for His great sake hadst being
From central deep to starry cope
Beauty is the All Seeing
Oh yet thou shalt be a majestic cress1re.
Redeemed IN form and ev'ry feature
Now moons on high, thy plains continuous
bowers flowers
And in thy snow-whitc hands ssother Edens
Then, suffering souls rejoice with harp and
know not what ONr fate may be voice
only know that he who hath a Time
Must also have Etc-aty
One hillow proves and gives awholc wide sea
On this bVild my trust,
And not on mountain dust,
Or murmuring woods or star-lit cline.
Or ocean with melodiOus chime
Or sunset gories in the western sky
Enough. an, and shall not choose - die
No matter what our future fate may De-.
TO hive Is IN itself majesty
On there We may again create
Far worlds as in our youthful state
Or Woe may build for US merry tomb.
Like Fsrinata' $ in the lether gloom:
Even then we will cot lose the name of man
BY idle moan or coward groan, IPlsn."
But say 1t was so written in the mighty
- isfs. ISIS