MESOURANÉMA.
Bend over me! bend with your radiant skies,
O, land of the heart's own paradise!
I have lived too long amidst drooping flowers,
I pine for the light of thy golden hours;
For the sunshine that maketh the heart a home,
Where shadow hath never dared to come;
For the fragrance that liveth upon the air,
And maketh the bosom its place of prayer;
For the smile that hovers upon the lips,
And is never dimmed by the heart's eclipse;
And those glorious strains that ever seem
But pinions to some delightful dream,
That beareth us up from the earth away,
To the purer light of a perfect day!
O, land of the heart's own paradise!
I have lived too long amidst drooping flowers,
I pine for the light of thy golden hours;
For the sunshine that maketh the heart a home,
Where shadow hath never dared to come;
For the fragrance that liveth upon the air,
And maketh the bosom its place of prayer;
For the smile that hovers upon the lips,
And is never dimmed by the heart's eclipse;
And those glorious strains that ever seem
But pinions to some delightful dream,
That beareth us up from the earth away,
To the purer light of a perfect day!
Bend over me! bend with your smiling skies,
O, land of diviner harmonies!
Our world hath never a sound of mirth,
But is filled with the dreaminess of earth;
Our fingers have never touched a chord,
But a mornful prelude abroad was poured;
No strain may over our waters creep,
But maketh us turn aside and weep,
For our "bosom's lord" is seldom glad,
And the sweetest music is always sad.
O, land of diviner harmonies!
Our world hath never a sound of mirth,
But is filled with the dreaminess of earth;
Our fingers have never touched a chord,
But a mornful prelude abroad was poured;
No strain may over our waters creep,
But maketh us turn aside and weep,
For our "bosom's lord" is seldom glad,
And the sweetest music is always sad.
