MUSIC OF YESTERDAY.
“O! mein Geist, ich fühle es in mir, strebt nach etwas Ueberirdischem,
das keinem Menschen gegönnt ist.”—Tieck.
The chord, the harp's full chord is hush'd,
The voice hath died away,
Whence music, like sweet waters, gush'd,
But yesterday.
Th' awakening note, the breeze-like swell,
The full o'ersweeping tone,
The sounds that sigh'd “Farewell, farewell!”
Are gone—all gone!
The love, whose fervent spirit pass'd
With the rich measure's flow;
The grief, to which it sank at last—
Where are they now?
They are with the scents, by Summer's breath
Borne from a rose now shed:
With the words from lips long seal'd in death—
For ever fled.
The sea-shell, of its native deep
A moaning thrill retains;
But earth and air no record keep
Of parted strains.
And all the memories, all the dreams,
They woke in floating by;
The tender thoughts, th' Elysian gleams—
Could these too die?
They died—as on the water's breast
The ripple melts away,
When the breeze that stirr'd it sinks to rest—
So perish'd they!
Mysterious in their sudden birth,
And mournful in their close,
Passing, and finding not on earth
Aim or repose.
Whence were they?—like the breath of flowers
Why thus to come and go?
A long, long journey must be ours
Ere this we know!
