 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
96
THE MINSTREL.
One there was, though fair and young,
Blest with song's most wondrous dower,
And skilful hand she flung
O'er a lyre of magic power.
Beauty fashioned not her face
In a mould of faultless seeming,
But it wore thought's earnest trace,
And the light of soul, bright beaming.
Blest with song's most wondrous dower,
And skilful hand she flung
O'er a lyre of magic power.
Beauty fashioned not her face
In a mould of faultless seeming,
But it wore thought's earnest trace,
And the light of soul, bright beaming.
In her eyes so strangely bright,
Full of deep and dewy splendor,
When their soft and changeful light
Told of feeling true and tender,—
In her haughty brow of snow,
In the tear her cheek impearling,—
In the sweet voice trembling low,
In her soft lip proudly curling;
In her song's melodious art,
Sweetness from its grief deriving,
One might read that in her heart
Pride and wretchedness were striving:
Though the worldly thoughtless throng
Paused awhile to list in wonder
The proud triumph of her song,
And the anguish wailing under.
When she sung of brows of snow,
No one knew that hers was aching,
When of hearts in joy's bright glow,
No one cared that hers was breaking;—
When she sung of smiling eyes,
No one saw that hers were tearful.
And her young life's closest ties
Rent by anguish strong and fearful.
Loneliness weighed down her heart,—
Love or friendship never found her,—
Not one soul with hers had part,
'Mid the thousands gathered round her;
For the great world looked on her
As on one too highly gifted
For a mortal love to stir,—
And no pleading voice was lifted.
Full of deep and dewy splendor,
When their soft and changeful light
Told of feeling true and tender,—
In her haughty brow of snow,
In the tear her cheek impearling,—
In the sweet voice trembling low,
In her soft lip proudly curling;
In her song's melodious art,
Sweetness from its grief deriving,
One might read that in her heart
Pride and wretchedness were striving:
97
Paused awhile to list in wonder
The proud triumph of her song,
And the anguish wailing under.
When she sung of brows of snow,
No one knew that hers was aching,
When of hearts in joy's bright glow,
No one cared that hers was breaking;—
When she sung of smiling eyes,
No one saw that hers were tearful.
And her young life's closest ties
Rent by anguish strong and fearful.
Loneliness weighed down her heart,—
Love or friendship never found her,—
Not one soul with hers had part,
'Mid the thousands gathered round her;
For the great world looked on her
As on one too highly gifted
For a mortal love to stir,—
And no pleading voice was lifted.
Thus she sang, day after day,
No one heeding, no one caring,
Till her heart, once light and gay,
Grew dark, heavy and despairing,—
Till her song of dreamings bright
Changed to murmurs sad and bitter,
And her soft eyes' loving light
Grew a cold and icy glitter;
Till her eyelids drooped in sleep,
And her song was hushed forever,
And she sunk in slumber deep,
Tired of life's long vain endeavor;—
And her last brief trembling breath
Fell upon the deaf air only,—
Who shall answer for her death
Thus uncared-for, sad and lonely?
No one heeding, no one caring,
Till her heart, once light and gay,
Grew dark, heavy and despairing,—
Till her song of dreamings bright
Changed to murmurs sad and bitter,
And her soft eyes' loving light
Grew a cold and icy glitter;
98
And her song was hushed forever,
And she sunk in slumber deep,
Tired of life's long vain endeavor;—
And her last brief trembling breath
Fell upon the deaf air only,—
Who shall answer for her death
Thus uncared-for, sad and lonely?
Every feeling unreturned,
Each affection unrequited,
Every prayer for love that's spurned,
Every lofty hope that's blighted,
Is a deep and bitter wrong
In the eyes of the All-seeing,
And amid life's varied throng,
Many a heart deplores their being.
Each affection unrequited,
Every prayer for love that's spurned,
Every lofty hope that's blighted,
Is a deep and bitter wrong
In the eyes of the All-seeing,
And amid life's varied throng,
Many a heart deplores their being.
Who shall answer for the grief
In the minstrel's being centered?
On what cold heart's darkened leaf
Shall the heavy sin be entered?
In the minstrel's being centered?
On what cold heart's darkened leaf
Shall the heavy sin be entered?
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |