The works of Mrs. Hemans With a memoir of her life, by her sister. In seven volumes |
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 | The works of Mrs. Hemans |  |
THE LYRE'S LAMENT.
“A large lyre hung in an opening of the rock, and gave forth its melancholy
music to the wind—but no human being was to be seen.”
Salathiel.
A deep-toned lyre hung murmuring
To the wild wind of the sea:
“O melancholy wind,” it sigh'd,
“What would thy breath with me?
To the wild wind of the sea:
“O melancholy wind,” it sigh'd,
“What would thy breath with me?
“Thou can'st not wake the spirit
That in me slumbering lies,
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire
Of buried melodies.
That in me slumbering lies,
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire
Of buried melodies.
“Wind of the dark sea-waters!
Thou dost but sweep my strings
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.
Thou dost but sweep my strings
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.
“But the spell—the gift—the lightning—
Within my frame conceal'd,
Must I moulder on the rock away,
With their triumphs unreveal'd?
Within my frame conceal'd,
Must I moulder on the rock away,
With their triumphs unreveal'd?
“I have power, high power, for freedom
To wake the burning soul!
I have sounds that through the ancient hills
Like a torrent's voice might roll.
To wake the burning soul!
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Like a torrent's voice might roll.
“I have pealing notes of victory
That might welcome kings from war;
I have rich deep tones to send the wail
For a hero's death afar.
That might welcome kings from war;
I have rich deep tones to send the wail
For a hero's death afar.
“I have chords to lift the pæan
From the temple to the sky,
Full as the forest-unisons
When sweeping winds are high.
From the temple to the sky,
Full as the forest-unisons
When sweeping winds are high.
“And love—for love's lone sorrow
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
Or the violet's faint farewell:
I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
Or the violet's faint farewell:
“Soft—spiritual—mournful—
Sighs in each note enshrined—
But who shall call that sweetness forth?
Thou can'st not, ocean-wind!
Sighs in each note enshrined—
But who shall call that sweetness forth?
Thou can'st not, ocean-wind!
“I pass without my glory,
Forgotten I decay—
Where is the touch to give me life?
—Wild, fitful wind, away!”
Forgotten I decay—
Where is the touch to give me life?
—Wild, fitful wind, away!”
So sigh'd the broken music
That in gladness had no part—
How like art thou, neglected lyre,
To many a human heart!
That in gladness had no part—
How like art thou, neglected lyre,
To many a human heart!
| The works of Mrs. Hemans | |