Ode to Art

By Sprague

When from the sacred garden driven,
Man fled before his Maker’s wrath,
An angel left her place in Heaven,
And crossed the wanderer’s sunless path.

“Twas Art! Sweet Art! New radiance broke
Where her light foot flew o’er the ground;
And thus with seraph voice she spoke,
“The curse a blessing shall be found.”

She led him through the trackless wild,
Where noontide sunbeams never blazed;
The thistle shrunk, the harvest smiled,
And nature gladdened as she gazed.

Earth’s thousand tribes of living things,
At Art’s command are to him given;
The village grows, the city springs,
And point their spires of faith to Heaven.

In fields of air he writes his name,
And treads the chambers of the sky;
He reads the stars, and grasps the flame
That quivers round the throne on high.

Sent in by Mrs H. A. B., Roxbury

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