Poem June 12, 1909 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel.]

MY HARP

MARY I. MESECHRE

A silent harp is mine. Its strings are still,
The while they wait their unknown master's will.
Dumbly it stands, entreating silently
Each passing hand to try its chords, and see
If he whose magic touch shall music wake
May not be near. But, though they rust and break,
The strings are voiceless. Till its master come
My harp stands waiting—ready, aye, but dumb.

A jangling harp is mine. A curious eye
Espied it, and upon it carelessly
Smote with unguarded hand, and jarring sound
Sprang from its strings, where silence so profound
Before had rested, and its peace has fled
As on swift wings, and discord reigns instead.
Oh, that some gentle hand would calm evoke,
Or e'en the former silence, ere it spoke.

A singing harp is mine. The master hand
Hath touched the strings, and I rejoicing stand,
While from my lips the melody outwells
In waves of praise that every woe dispels.
Beneath Thy mighty power I gladly yield,
That through my voice Thy love may be revealed,
Till to Thy lightest touch my soul shall thrill
In rapture all divine, to do Thy will.

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June 12, 1909
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