Poems (Griffith)/Broken Barbiton—Withered Laurel-Wreath and Broken Heart
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Broken Barbiton—Withered Laurel-Wreath and Broken Heart.
A SCENE FROM BULWER'S ZANONI.
IT was the close of day upon the shores
Of beauteous Naples. The low murmuring waves
That-rose and fell upon the "Siren's sea,"
Gleamed like pale rubies in the sunset glow;
The dim isles, veiled in mists of silver, rose
Far through the dim and shadowy atmosphere;
The pale, sweet stars shone calm and beautiful
In the blue diadem of night, and shapes
Of loveliness and beauty seemed to steal
Forth from the soft and deepening shades, as Love,
And star-eyed Hope, and pensive Memory
Steal from the twilight of the heart. Afar,
Like a huge column moving in the heavens,
Soared the gray smoke of old Vesuvius,
From its broad base of lurid flame; the shaft
Of Maro's tomb above the beetling cliff
Was drawn against the deep blue sky, and soft
The scattered gardens of the Caprea shone:
Like "wrecks of Paradise." No human voice
Broke the deep spell of silence and repose,
That rested like a calm, mysterious dream
Upon the landscape, yet the air still seemed
All musical, and strangely eloquent
With the hushed cadences and passion-sighs
Of deep and burning love.
Of beauteous Naples. The low murmuring waves
That-rose and fell upon the "Siren's sea,"
Gleamed like pale rubies in the sunset glow;
The dim isles, veiled in mists of silver, rose
Far through the dim and shadowy atmosphere;
The pale, sweet stars shone calm and beautiful
In the blue diadem of night, and shapes
Of loveliness and beauty seemed to steal
Forth from the soft and deepening shades, as Love,
And star-eyed Hope, and pensive Memory
Steal from the twilight of the heart. Afar,
Like a huge column moving in the heavens,
Soared the gray smoke of old Vesuvius,
From its broad base of lurid flame; the shaft
Of Maro's tomb above the beetling cliff
Was drawn against the deep blue sky, and soft
The scattered gardens of the Caprea shone:
Like "wrecks of Paradise." No human voice
Broke the deep spell of silence and repose,
That rested like a calm, mysterious dream
Upon the landscape, yet the air still seemed
All musical, and strangely eloquent
With the hushed cadences and passion-sighs
Of deep and burning love.
Ah! 'mid this scene
Of loveliness and deep serenity:
The traces of despair, and woe, and death
Were darkly visible. The twilight's last
Sweet, rosy smile of gentleness and love
Stole softly, calmly, beautifully through
The parted vines that bloomed and clustered o'er
The window of an humble cottage home,
And fell upon the white brow of the dead,
As human love falls vainly on the heart
Of cold despair. Alone the minstrel slept
In his unbreathing rest. Upon the floor,
Beside him, lay the cherished laurel-wreath.
His only wealth, the guerdon of his toils,
The one dear boon for which, through weary years
Of bitter sorrows, he had patiently
Struggled and suffered, pouring forth his wild,
Deep soul of music, while keen agony
Was tearing his great heart. There, there it lay
All pale and withering, like the throbless brow
Whence it had fallen.
Of loveliness and deep serenity:
The traces of despair, and woe, and death
Were darkly visible. The twilight's last
Sweet, rosy smile of gentleness and love
Stole softly, calmly, beautifully through
The parted vines that bloomed and clustered o'er
The window of an humble cottage home,
And fell upon the white brow of the dead,
As human love falls vainly on the heart
Of cold despair. Alone the minstrel slept
In his unbreathing rest. Upon the floor,
Beside him, lay the cherished laurel-wreath.
His only wealth, the guerdon of his toils,
The one dear boon for which, through weary years
Of bitter sorrows, he had patiently
Struggled and suffered, pouring forth his wild,
Deep soul of music, while keen agony
Was tearing his great heart. There, there it lay
All pale and withering, like the throbless brow
Whence it had fallen.
There, beside him too,
Broken and silent lay his barbiton,
His own familiar, in whose spirit tones
His spirit e'er had found in joy and grief
A faithful echo. It had been his friend,
True and unfailing, 'mid the darkened wrecks
Of human friendships. It had been his love,
His child, his life, and his religion.
Had talked to it at twilight's wizard hour,
The hour that now closed over it and him,
And it had answered him in tones of more
Than earthly sympathy. And he had won,
With its dear aid, the wreath so fondly deemed
The emblem of fame's immortality.
But now the dust was on its loosened chords,
That, like his own dark tresses, swept the floor,
To sound no more, save when perchance the wind,
Straying at nightfall through that ruined cot,
Should gently stir them with its breath of sighs,
To one low wail, one melancholy moan,
For him who so had loved them.
Broken and silent lay his barbiton,
His own familiar, in whose spirit tones
His spirit e'er had found in joy and grief
A faithful echo. It had been his friend,
True and unfailing, 'mid the darkened wrecks
Of human friendships. It had been his love,
His child, his life, and his religion.
Had talked to it at twilight's wizard hour,
The hour that now closed over it and him,
And it had answered him in tones of more
Than earthly sympathy. And he had won,
With its dear aid, the wreath so fondly deemed
The emblem of fame's immortality.
But now the dust was on its loosened chords,
That, like his own dark tresses, swept the floor,
To sound no more, save when perchance the wind,
Straying at nightfall through that ruined cot,
Should gently stir them with its breath of sighs,
To one low wail, one melancholy moan,
For him who so had loved them.
'Twas a scene
To move the heart to tears. The world around,
The air, the earth, the sky, the ocean, seemed
Flooded with beauty; every isle that gleamed
In the deep sea, and every sweet star isle
That glittered in the blue sky, seemed a bright
Calypso of the heart, yet in that lone
And silent cottage home, the minstrel pale—
The wreath that he had purchased with the cries,
The wild shrieks of his spirit—and the lyre,
The sole companion of his life of toil,
His heart's dear idol—mouldered side by side,
Unheeded by the careless race of men.
To move the heart to tears. The world around,
The air, the earth, the sky, the ocean, seemed
Flooded with beauty; every isle that gleamed
In the deep sea, and every sweet star isle
That glittered in the blue sky, seemed a bright
Calypso of the heart, yet in that lone
And silent cottage home, the minstrel pale—
The wreath that he had purchased with the cries,
The wild shrieks of his spirit—and the lyre,
The sole companion of his life of toil,
His heart's dear idol—mouldered side by side,
Unheeded by the careless race of men.
Louisville, February, 1852.