 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
200
THE BROKEN HARP.
It was a harp that 'neath the poet's hand
In earlier happier days
Gave forth such wondrous tones, that all the land
Re-echoed praise.
In earlier happier days
Gave forth such wondrous tones, that all the land
Re-echoed praise.
A cherub's head looked out above the wires,
Whose nerves, so sensitive,
Responded to the singer's wild desires,
And seemed to live.
Whose nerves, so sensitive,
Responded to the singer's wild desires,
And seemed to live.
The slightest touch called forth its music then,
Wild, sorrowing, pensive, gay,
Howe'er 'twas touched, to hearts of maids and men
It found its way.
Wild, sorrowing, pensive, gay,
Howe'er 'twas touched, to hearts of maids and men
It found its way.
201
Oft to the old sweet air of love it thrilled,
Oft in the hall at night
Rang, while the wine-cup on the board was spilled,
In mad delight.
Oft in the hall at night
Rang, while the wine-cup on the board was spilled,
In mad delight.
Behold it now! how time, neglect, abuse
Have spoiled that cherub brow;
Its strings, half shattered and half hanging loose,
Have no chords now.
Have spoiled that cherub brow;
Its strings, half shattered and half hanging loose,
Have no chords now.
And when the singer plays, as play he will,
Among these jarring strings,
Ah! what a sound of horror, wild and shrill,
The least touch brings.
Among these jarring strings,
Ah! what a sound of horror, wild and shrill,
The least touch brings.
There in the corner of the hall it stands,
Cracked, stained with blood and wine,
The harp that yielded to those youthful hands
Sounds half divine.
Cracked, stained with blood and wine,
The harp that yielded to those youthful hands
Sounds half divine.
220
What knowing thought, oh, ever moaning sea,
Haunts thy perturbed breast—
What dark crime weighs upon thy memory
And spoils thy rest?
Haunts thy perturbed breast—
What dark crime weighs upon thy memory
And spoils thy rest?
Thy soft swell lifts and swings the new-launched yacht
With polished spars and deck,
But crawls and grovels where the bare ribs rot
Of the old wreck.
With polished spars and deck,
But crawls and grovels where the bare ribs rot
Of the old wreck.
Oh, treacherous courtier! thy deceitful lie
To youth is gayly told,
But in remorse I see thee cringingly
Crouch to the old.
To youth is gayly told,
But in remorse I see thee cringingly
Crouch to the old.
| Poems by William W. Story | |