 | The poetical works of Barry Cornwall |  |
200
A SONG.
Lie silent now, my lyre,
For all thy master's fire
Is gone.—It vanish'd like the summer sun.
Brightly the passion rose,
And, 'till its turbulent close,
It shone as bright; though all he wished was won.
For all thy master's fire
Is gone.—It vanish'd like the summer sun.
Brightly the passion rose,
And, 'till its turbulent close,
It shone as bright; though all he wished was won.
Deem me not false, ye fair,
Who, with your golden hair
And soft eyes chain man's heart to yours: the deer
Thus bound by beauty's chain
Wanders not again:
Prisoner to love, like me—never to fear.
Who, with your golden hair
And soft eyes chain man's heart to yours: the deer
Thus bound by beauty's chain
Wanders not again:
Prisoner to love, like me—never to fear.
201
She whom I loved has fled;
And now with the lost dead
I rank her: and the heart that loved her so,
(But could not bear her pride,)
In its own cell hath died,
And turned to dust,—but this she shall not know.
And now with the lost dead
I rank her: and the heart that loved her so,
(But could not bear her pride,)
In its own cell hath died,
And turned to dust,—but this she shall not know.
'Twould please her did she think
That my poor frame did shrink,
And waste and wither; and that Love's own light
Did blast its temple, where
'Twas worshipped many a year;
Veiled (like some holy thing) from human sight.
That my poor frame did shrink,
And waste and wither; and that Love's own light
Did blast its temple, where
'Twas worshipped many a year;
Veiled (like some holy thing) from human sight.
Oh! had you seen her when
She languished, and the men
From the dark glancing of her fringed eye
Turned, but returned again
To mark the winding vein
Steal tow'rd her marble bosom, silently.
She languished, and the men
From the dark glancing of her fringed eye
Turned, but returned again
To mark the winding vein
Steal tow'rd her marble bosom, silently.
202
What matters this?—thou lyre,
Nothing shall e'er inspire
Thy master to rehearse those songs again:
She whom he loved is gone,
And he, now left alone,
Sings, when he sings of love, in vain, in vain.
Nothing shall e'er inspire
Thy master to rehearse those songs again:
She whom he loved is gone,
And he, now left alone,
Sings, when he sings of love, in vain, in vain.
| The poetical works of Barry Cornwall | |