Hast thou heard of a statue, erected of yore,
Of whose musical murmurs such marvels are told,
As Philosophy now, counts but fabulous lore,
Though trusted as truth by the simple of old.

For ’twas said, and believed—in the silence of night
It was mute as the landscape around it that lay;
But awoke at the touch of glad morning’s first light,
And with harmony greeted the herald of day.

Be it fiction alone! yet a truth it may teach,
And one which too many have need to be taught,
Could the emblem’s true essence availingly reach
To the inmost recesses of feeling and thought.

Thus the dark heart of man, in its fallen estate,
Bewildered by error, of passion the slave,
To all that is glorious, or god-like, or great,
Is cold as that statue, and still as the grave.

But if on it the bright Sun of righteousness shine,
With light and with life far surpassing the day’s,
Enkindled at once, by that radiance Divine,
It is vocal with joy, and thanksgiving, and praise.

Adapted from Bernard Barton
Household Verses, 1845