 | Miscellaneous Poems |  |
169
Stanzas to J. K.
What strains are these, what sweet familiar numbers,
From old Ierne o'er the waters wend?
How welcome, wakening from its lengthen'd slumbers,
Sounds the heart-music of my earliest Friend!
Well might that hand amid the chords have falter'd,
That voice have lost the power to melt and move:
How pleasant, then, to find them still unalter'd,
That lyre in sweetness, and that heart in love!
From old Ierne o'er the waters wend?
How welcome, wakening from its lengthen'd slumbers,
Sounds the heart-music of my earliest Friend!
Well might that hand amid the chords have falter'd,
That voice have lost the power to melt and move:
How pleasant, then, to find them still unalter'd,
That lyre in sweetness, and that heart in love!
Shall not my tuneful powers, too long neglected,
Revive to answer that persuasive call?—
Like the old harp that, mould'ring and rejected,
Hangs up in silence in some lonely hall,
When youth and beauty's train there re-assembles,
And mirth and song once more begin to flow,
Light o'er the chords a mimic music trembles,
Responsive to the notes that swell below!
Revive to answer that persuasive call?—
Like the old harp that, mould'ring and rejected,
Hangs up in silence in some lonely hall,
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And mirth and song once more begin to flow,
Light o'er the chords a mimic music trembles,
Responsive to the notes that swell below!
Ah me!—what thoughts those few bold notes awaken,—
Bright recollections of life's morning hours;
Haunts long remembered, and too soon forsaken;
Days that fled by in sunshine, song, and flowers;
Old Clogher's rocks, our own sequester'd valley;
Wild walks by moonlight on the sounding shore,
Hearts warm and free, light laugh, and playful sally,
All that has been,—and shall return no more—
Bright recollections of life's morning hours;
Haunts long remembered, and too soon forsaken;
Days that fled by in sunshine, song, and flowers;
Old Clogher's rocks, our own sequester'd valley;
Wild walks by moonlight on the sounding shore,
Hearts warm and free, light laugh, and playful sally,
All that has been,—and shall return no more—
No more,—no more,—moods ever new and changing,
Feelings that forth in song so freely gush'd,
Wing'd hopes, high fancies, thoughts unfetter'd ranging—
Flowers which the world's cold ploughshare since has crush'd.
Dear early visions of departed gladness,
Ye rise, ye live a moment in that strain,
A gleam of sunshine on life's wintry sadness,
Ah! why so bright, to flit so soon again?
Feelings that forth in song so freely gush'd,
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Flowers which the world's cold ploughshare since has crush'd.
Dear early visions of departed gladness,
Ye rise, ye live a moment in that strain,
A gleam of sunshine on life's wintry sadness,
Ah! why so bright, to flit so soon again?
Friend of my heart!—since those young visions perish'd,
We've trod a chequer'd path of good and ill;
We've seen the wreck of much that once we cherish'd,
But not the wreck of love and friendship still.
No, hand in hand we've met life's stormy weather,
Sustain'd the buffetings of foe and friend,
And hand in hand and heart in heart together,
We'll help and cheer each other to the end.
We've trod a chequer'd path of good and ill;
We've seen the wreck of much that once we cherish'd,
But not the wreck of love and friendship still.
No, hand in hand we've met life's stormy weather,
Sustain'd the buffetings of foe and friend,
And hand in hand and heart in heart together,
We'll help and cheer each other to the end.
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Strike then the chords!—alas, too rarely stricken,
And I will answer in my humbler style:
No voice like thine can soothe, can urge, can quicken,—
Why has it been so little heard ere while?
Yes, strike the chords! high thoughts and aims inspiring;
And up the narrow way we'll homeward move,
Mingling our pilgrim songs, and here acquiring
New hearts and voices for the songs above.
And I will answer in my humbler style:
No voice like thine can soothe, can urge, can quicken,—
Why has it been so little heard ere while?
Yes, strike the chords! high thoughts and aims inspiring;
And up the narrow way we'll homeward move,
Mingling our pilgrim songs, and here acquiring
New hearts and voices for the songs above.
Berryhead, 1840.
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