 | Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood |  |
ONE RADIANT EVE.
One radiant eve, in rosy June,
I lent my love a lute to tune,
A lute whose chords had still denied
Their timid tones to all beside.
I lent my love a lute to tune,
A lute whose chords had still denied
Their timid tones to all beside.
At first with softest, tenderest care,
He touch'd the strings, in rapture rare,
And woke the soul of music there!
Until it learn'd to love so well
His wondrous, wizard, master-spell,
If he but smiled, its chords of fire
Would wildly play like Memnon's lyre.
But soon he wearied of the toy
That once he press'd in pride and joy;
He swept with heedless hand the lute,
Or let it languish, lone and mute,
Until at last, one wintry day,
In reckless and disdainful play,
With touch so rude he strain'd a string,
It broke!—and music's soul took wing!
While he, for whom it, breaking, sigh'd,
Threw by the toy in careless pride.
And now my hours a blank must be,
For oh! that lute was life to me!
Ah! lutes and hearts are fragile things!
And only Love should tune the strings.
He touch'd the strings, in rapture rare,
And woke the soul of music there!
Until it learn'd to love so well
His wondrous, wizard, master-spell,
105
Would wildly play like Memnon's lyre.
But soon he wearied of the toy
That once he press'd in pride and joy;
He swept with heedless hand the lute,
Or let it languish, lone and mute,
Until at last, one wintry day,
In reckless and disdainful play,
With touch so rude he strain'd a string,
It broke!—and music's soul took wing!
While he, for whom it, breaking, sigh'd,
Threw by the toy in careless pride.
And now my hours a blank must be,
For oh! that lute was life to me!
Ah! lutes and hearts are fragile things!
And only Love should tune the strings.
| Poems by Frances Sargent Osgood | |