Harps and Hearts

There are harps in our breastsOf most delicate make,And many the tones which are heard;Now plaintive, now gay,Now so soft is their lay.The notes seem like those of a bird.

These harps God has tuned.Though broken they seem,They respond to their Maker's command;And mortals, too, play them,Words, deeds, and looks sway them,A breath hath these instruments fanned.

Our hearts are these harps—How sweet are their strainsWhen sympathy touches the chords;Then such melody's given,'Tis echoed in heaven,Though whispered on earth are the words.

Then strike these harps daily,By deed, look, and word;Hearts around us are sighing for aid;And since some are sad,Whom a word can make glad,Say, shall not the kind word be said?

Though countless the stars,Heart-harps are not less,They are playing below and above;But wherever they be,They have one master-key—And the name of that one key is love.