Finis Coronat Opus

Naught stirs the heart to swell with pride, Or bids the coward, “Come and fight, And seize your fortune, e’er the day  Is gone, your hope to speed away”, As words with pointed meaning fierce, And music haunting on the ears. For words a hist’ry ancient tell, Of bravest deeds, of twisted spell; And melodies of old bear still The magic of the trees and rills; So fill they souls with beauty great Through cent’ries long, and kingdoms’ fates.

Who will write the lays and songs, And pen the words proclaimed by throngs, When poets we long loved have passed And through the veil they sleep at last? When sounds and tunes from soulless gears Fall meaningless upon our ears, Where are the spirits deep, who feel, And paint with words in world of steel? When heart is gone from music, fair No more will be such song; for there Is kinship in a lay soft sung In words first felt, seen, ‘neath the sun.

Guard your mind, and make it strong, And feed it well with truth, Lest weak it dwindle down ‘ere long ‘Neath weight of things uncouth. Whole and full of life should be The minds and thoughts of men, That firm and stalwart, bold and free, They live among their kin. When frail and full of lies become Their hearts and deeds, then wait And watch, for from such never sprung Fair thoughts nor wisdom great.

There is a tale of ancient days, Of long before the sunlight blazed And e’er in lands there rose to be Fair peoples living ‘neath the trees; To bring forth life ‘mid darkness vast That through the ages long would last, There sang a host, arrayed in light, Commanded by creator’s might. Such music! haunting, beauteous, strong, All voices cried within the throng, And from the chords and notes were worked Such wonders as men now observe. If music fair, and voices strong, And glorious themes their strains prolonged Did strands of time and space weave there, Into the earth, the water, air, Then ought we not continue thus, Though mortal, formed out of the dust, To music, song, and lay compose, That heal old wounds, and stir the soul?

Read, and learn, and knowledge gain, As did the men of old Who stood forth brave ‘neath tyrants’ reign, And spoke with wisdom bold. The ancient writers wielded pen, And words they sent beyond Their own brief lives, and realms, and ken, That on men light would dawn. Great privilege we hold in hand, Great precepts we should learn; For with them, beauteous is the land, Without them, it shall mourn.

Hid from sight of bustling hordes, Forgotten, brought to mind no more, Lie words, and tales, and legends great, That in the dark their fate await; For none remember yellowed page, Or less renowned, not fame-d sage. Why read the words of volumes old When new and shiny tales are told, And fables of the dusty past Are left behind in numbers vast, Their writers deemed no longer meet For modern sensibility? And so the people of the age Neglect the words upon the page, That, written with a care and thought Did beauty paint within the heart, Commend great deeds and honor strong, And build up nations from the throngs.