Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems by the late Thomas Haynes Bayly; Edited by his Widow. With A Memoir of the Author. In Two Volumes |
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BE SILENT, MY LUTE! |
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 | Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems |  |
253
BE SILENT, MY LUTE!
I
Be silent, for ever, be silent, my lute!For the voice that has echoed your numbers is mute;
The spirit, the life of my music is o'er,
For the ear that has listen'd can listen no more:
There has been a time, when my eye has survey'd
The theme and the song of my soul as I play'd,—
But her features are clouded, her accents are mute,
Then be silent, for ever, be silent, my lute!
II
The garden she planted its blossoms may boast,But the flower is faded which gladden'd it most;
Her bowers may bloom with clematis and vine,
But where is the hand that once taught them to twine?
Thus, the landscape at midnight is beautiful still,
And freshness remains upon valley and hill;
But then the eye rests upon darkness alone,
For the beams that illumine each object are gone.
III
'Tis long since we parted, I seek thee in vain;My Ellen! I never can meet thee again!
Yet still there are ties which time cannot remove,
When we mourn o'er the relics of those that we love:
Like rocks which the whirlwind asunder has thrown,
Though sever'd for ever in years that are gone,
Though the flood of the valley flows darkly between,
The trace of their union on each may be seen.
254
IV
There once was a time when my muse could assuageThe blots and the sorrows that darken life's page;
But now every verse unavailing must prove,
For tears damp the strings of the lyre of love.
Yet still I can look on the lute that she loved,
And hear from another the song she approved;
But the words and the notes cannot charm me alone,
For the spirit, the life, of my music is gone.
V
Oh! tell me no more of the hopes that you see,For a cloud hovers still 'twixt their radiance and me;
I trusted them once—but they left me to mourn;
I may view them in thought—but they cannot return.
To a sailor whose bark on the billows is tost,
When tempests o'erwhelm him, and succour is lost,
'Tis cruel to point to the meadows and groves,
And the roses that bloom round the home that he loves.
| Songs, Ballads, and Other Poems | |