The Harp of David

WHEN the night her vision is weaving

With moonlight and starlight for warp,

The King in his chamber arises

And wakens the voice of his harp.

He sees not the hands of him playing,

He hears but a melody sweet;

He hears but the heart of him beating

With a musical, magical beat.

He gazes out through the window

On the world in beauty bedight—

Forgotten the throne and the sceptre

In a holier, higher delight!

He sees like a picture before him,

The quiet, green fields where he spent

His youthful years as a shepherd,

His only palace—a tent—

His sceptre—the flute of the shepherd,

Carved of the cedar-wood hard;

His fortune and lonely treasure—

The soulful pride of the bard.

Then pours he his soul on the harp-strings—

Forgetful of sorrow and pain—

The old, gray monarch of Judah

Is a youthful Poet again!