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45
THE FLUTE-PLAYER.
That which on earth is the frailest, Time with his scythe often misses;Sweeping a city away, leaving unbroken a vase.
Who does not often exclaim, as he treads in the steps of the Mower,
“Strength, indeed thou art weak; weakness, indeed thou art strong!”
Come, I will show you a tomb—'tis that of an ancient Etruscan;
In it a woman's remains, crumbling away into dust.
See still intact is a Flute, in what was the hand of the player;
Centuries twenty, nay more, mute has it lain by her side.
Dead is the race she belonged to, and dead is the language she uttered,
Dead are the laws she obeyed, dead is the creed that she held;
Yet her ephemeral presence hath left us a tangible vestige;
Empires leave but a name; that which endures is a Flute.
Doubtless her music was primitive, yet for the Gods all-sufficient,
If it was good for her time, if in men's ears it was sweet.
Flute, be a potent enchanter, and come to the aid of my fancy;
Clothe her again in the flesh, such as she stood in her day;
Youth to her figure restore, Beauty bestow on her features;
Some of the breath that she gave, give to the player again.
Shape hath she taken already. How strangely distinct is the phantom!
Fairer, perhaps, than in life; fiction is fairer than truth.
46
Simple and plaintive the air, young is the musical art
Why does she stop in her playing, and listless, the instrument holding,
Wistfully gaze into space, lost in the mazes of thought?
Tell me thy story, O maiden! all language is clear to the poet,
When it in purity comes straight from the depths of the heart.
See, on the lips of the player a word of emotion is trembling. . . .
Ah! I awake from my dream—all, save the flute, melts to air.
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