The Potter journal. [volume] (Coudersport, Pa.) 1857-1872, 1859-06-30
GDmmuniGatl
RSOslert O'LENcOHn.

DEAR JoURNAL-There is a stranger
among US from the South from the far
of, sunny South; and dear delightful
fellow he is. too. He sings like a seraph,
and laughs ike the water. His songs are
not highly elaborated effusions ofart-not
the bemanacled responses to polite invita-
tions. They are the simple out-towlngs
of the bllssful tide of Heaven-the RIP
pling voiee-full embodiment OF that soft
.undertone of lite which thrills through the
universal heart, and breaks Ger the fea-
tures of Earth in smiles of bloom and
voices of Song. A special atoEl of bliss is
he-an ever-reuewfng battery, capable OF
evolving perpetual song. lie sets the
waving of flowers to music, and intcrprets
the language of the self-eolced streamlets.
He goes on high to hold converse with
the winds that blow, and then comes down
to tell us what they say Every meadow
is to him a temple of song, where music
and light lie hushed and dim, waiting only
his word to wake their harmonies. His
voice is the jubilant of every passing cloud
and way-side flower He sings to the
heart because he sings from the heart,
and by Inspirations; yet the spirlt-tide
flows so fast it is sometimes jumbled IN
the expression, making it imperfect IN
parts, but delightful as a whole. This
sweet enlivener OF the fields rejoices in the
unpoetical appelation of Bob O'Link. "
If the Bob could be bobbed off, the 0 Link
If his name is unexceptionable. Then |
have thought that Bob was peculiarly ap-
propriate to him as indicative Of his dash
ing, race-horseish style. Could one of bis
own songs be translated, this would be
sufficient to immortalize not only his name
but his nature See him, as with every
feather radiating delight, he wheels aloft,
skipping from wave to wave of the sunny
sea in which he revels, circles over the
highway and sinks into a harbor OF white
thorn blooms. He IS continually threat
ening of going off on spree. lie knows
of better worlds than this. He is going
to leave us all forever. You watch him
as he slowly ascends tho sky, keeping time
with his voice as he beats the air with his
wings, and his song of triumph grows
fainter to your ears as he grows higher,
but with him it is as loud and clear as
ever. Falling earthward through the in
creasing distance it seems like the melody
of angels, and speaks of Heaven. Dream
ier, and softer, and fainter, it comes back
TO your soul like the last expiring chime
of far-off bell. You long to follow him
upon his airy pathway and get glimpse
of the aerial landscape that lies above You
do not know what mysterious attraction
drew him up, nor into what ears his song
is now being poured. Like the perfume
of flowers he has arisen in obedience to
the onward and upward yearning. But
thero must be some limits to his flight.
He is not yet divested of the grosser par
ticles of his being, and cannot soar into
in6nity. uark "Tipkle, tinkle," a soft
rush of wings and he is here again. Sure
ly not on a common fence or tree will he
alight who has been among the clouds.
No! invisible hands are letting him down,
and he showers over them a thousand
carresses as they descend to the green vale
together. There is no glitter Of stars on
his wings, but get little nearer and his
eye seems touched with celestial bright
ness which he has caug,t somewhere in
his etheral orbit. Heaven bless thee, Bob,
for the times thou hast flooded our souls
with light-for the beautiful baptism of
thy luminous song. Sing on, until every
voice shall join the hymn of praise that is
perpetually yelling up from grateful and
innocent hearts. Then, perhaps, thou
wilt be appointed minister to the Court OF
Song that sits on some golden-fowered
isle, sleeping in sunlight on the bosom of
the ocean. II. 7. S.
June 20, 1859.