Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Poet's Harp of Sorrows
THE POET'S HARP OF SORROWS.
Thou hast been silent long, harp of my sorrows,
I had thought ne'er to touch thy chords again!
But grief closed in the heart such sternness borrows,
It is relief to waken thy complain;
And I have yearned to lay my heart on thee,
And let its throbbings wake a symphony.
I have a vision in my heart—
A vision of years long gone by—
And from almost oblivion start
A thousand links of memory.
I see a dimly smiling band
Far back upon the stream of time;
And friendship's wreath from hand to hand
Links sunniest flowers of sunny clime.
I see them faintly though so near;
I gaze into their smiling eyes;
And from their soft warm lips I hear
The gushing of old melodies.
But they are passing; as I gaze
The light fades from each smiling brow;
Unlike that dream of by-gone days,
A specter-band glides by me now.
My eyes are dim with unshed tears
That burn like fire, but will not flow;
My vision hath recalled the years,
The light-winged, bright-hued long ago.
I hear the caroling of birds,
And murmur of a gurgling stream,
A low sweet laugh, and pleasant words,
And eyes long closed with brilliance beam.
I seem to feel the fragrant breath
From bright, sweet lips, now pale and cold;
And forms come from the land of death
To cluster round me as of old.
And one most fair of that fair band
Smiles in my face with her pure eyes,
And the warm touch of her soft hand
Thrills me with long-gone ecstasies.
Art thou too fled? In my embrace
I clasp naught but the viewless air;
I gaze not in thy smiling face,
O where art thou, my sweet bride, where?
Dost call me with thy gentle tone?
And yet I can not follow thee!
I see thee not—I am alone;
O come again, sweet bride, to me.
O wail, my harp it was a dream—
A sweet deception, blessing me,
And passing as a cloud-rent beam
Of sun upon a troubled sea.
Thy trembling chords may sadly shake,
My heart-strings quiver like thine own,
And by their tension soon must break,
Then breathe for me thy pensive moan.
Not yet, not yet; O cease not yet,
Though sad the "burden of thy song;"
The restless spirit soon will set
That hath disturbed thy chords so long.
What strains! O never had thy strings
So much of ravishment as this;
I hear the rustling swoop of wings—
My bride! O Death, thou comest in bliss!