And wherefore bid me wake again
Strains that have slumbered long?
Or thinkest thou the heart of man
Is ne'er without a song?
A harp that trembles to each breath
Beneath the changeling sky,
And still for storm or zephyr hath
Unfailing symphony?

It may be so; but times there are
When storm and zephyr sleep;
And for the touch of human art
The notes lie all too deep.
Another touch-and uncontrolled-
Alone heart-utterance brings:-
Another's hand, and not our own,
Must be upon the strings.

And thus one song have I alone,
And why should it be sung?
A pilgrim's song of home-unknown-
And in a foreign tongue?
A prisoner's song-hope's prisoner-
But what care they, the free?
Who know not thraldom, for the thralled
Will have no sympathy.

Who knew ne'er yet unquiet, know
Not yet the calm of peace:
Who know not guilt and misery
Know not the God of grace!
But this is now my song alone,
And why should it be sung?
A song of joy, but yet unknown,
And in a foreign tongue?

But if thou hast heard that joyous song,
Where ever it is spoken,
Amid the throng-before the Throne-
Amid the day unbroken,
Turn thee to thy God thou mayest,
And faltering, failing never,
The gladness of a happy heart
Pour forth to Him for ever.
Thy soul shall be all melody
That cannot slumber long;
Every breath of heaven that breathes
Shall stir thee to a song,
Amid the cloud of care and grief,
Upon the bed of sighing,
Till they take up the blessed strain
To lull to rest the dying.

Then in the presence of thy God,
Faltering, failing never,
Gladness from thy happy heart,
Pour thee forth for ever.

F. W. G. (May 16th 1860)