 | Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 |  |
STANZAS TO A BROKEN LUTE.
I love thee, Lute, though from thy strings
No sounds of mirth or mourning start;
Thine image to my fancy brings
An emblem of my lonely heart.
No sounds of mirth or mourning start;
Thine image to my fancy brings
An emblem of my lonely heart.
Like thee when erst the false one's pride
Responsive sung its faithful measure,
With her it mourned whene'er she sighed,
With her rejoiced in scenes of pleasure.
Responsive sung its faithful measure,
With her it mourned whene'er she sighed,
With her rejoiced in scenes of pleasure.
Like thee ere played upon too much,
Alive to every tender feeling,
'Twould vibrate to the slightest touch,
Or softest sigh across it stealing.
Alive to every tender feeling,
'Twould vibrate to the slightest touch,
Or softest sigh across it stealing.
Like thee—by her deserted—left
Of woman's falsehood bitter token!
Of sound, of feeling robbed, bereft—
That pulse is fled, those chords are broken.
Of woman's falsehood bitter token!
Of sound, of feeling robbed, bereft—
That pulse is fled, those chords are broken.
No mirth the present moments bring,
No fears alarm it for the morrow;
A silent, solitary thing,
Which naught can wake to joy or sorrow.
No fears alarm it for the morrow;
A silent, solitary thing,
Which naught can wake to joy or sorrow.
| Songs and Poems from 1819 to 1879 | |