The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 23, Pages 550-551
NO MORE.
"There came a sound of song
From the dark ruins—a faint strain
As if some Echo that among
Those minstrel halls had slumber'd long,
Were murmuring into life again.
Ah! where are they, who heard in former hours
The voice of song in those neglected bowers?
They are gone—they all are gone!
'Tis thus in future hours, some bard will say
Of her who sings, and him that hears this lay.
They are gone—they too are gone."—Evenings in Greece.
No more!—a harp-string's deep, sad, breaking tone,
A last low summer-breeze, a far-off knell,
A dying echo of rich music gone,
Breathe through those words—those murmurs of farewell—
No more!
To dwell in peace with home-affections bound,
To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,
To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice—
No more!
A dirge-like sound!—to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;
In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,
Or join the household laughter by the blaze—
No more!
Through woods that shadow'd our first years to rove,
With all our native music in the air;
To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,
And turn, and meet our own heart's answer there—
No more!
Words of Despair!—yet Earth's, all Earth's—the woe
Their passion breathes—the desolately deep!
That sound in Heaven—oh! image then the flow
Of gladness in its tones!—to part, to weep—
No more!
To watch in dying hope, Affection's wane,
To see the Beautiful from life depart,
To wear impatiently a secret chain,
To waste the untold riches of the heart—
No more!
