The poems of Owen Meredith (Honble Robert Lytton.) ::

Memory, on this shrill harp, records
How Love with Pain waged mortal strife.
Her songs she sings to fitful chords.
Those songs may now be empty words,
But, ah! they once were life.

II

With bleeding breast, and broken wing,
Love, wounded in the unequal sight,
Made moan to Memory, murmuring
‘Sing me to sleep with songs that bring
Sweet dreams of lost delight!’

III

Then, o'er the harpstrings bending, she
Began to sing of joys that sprung
To flower when youth was fancy-free;
And, since she sung of youth, to thee,
Friend of my youth, she sung.

IV

Friend of my youth, and guide! and oh
Far more than friend, far more than guide!
Whose heart from mine nor bribe nor blow,
Nor many a fault, nor many a foe,
Have ever turn'd aside.

V

O tenderest heart in bravest breast,
No lie can lure, no truth offend!
In wisdom wisest, manliest
In massive manhood! O my best,
First, last, and noblest friend,

VI

Accept—not these, the sobs and cries
Of spent emotions, songs that be
Salt with the tears of Boyhood's eyes—
Not these—but all their utterance tries
To save from death, for thee:

VII

Delights that, dying, turn'd to pains:
Summers that, fading, left behind
No store, alas! of ripen'd grains,
But roseleaves strewn, and wandering strains
Of music on the wind.

VIII

Sung sorrows, these, of sorriest sort,
Because they once were joys! dead leaves
That have been flowers, but now the sport
Of hungry winds whose drear resort
Is round dismantled eaves:

IX

Love's failures, blown thro' chinks of rhyme
By gusts of aimless grief, they are.
Arisen from out a ruin'd time,
And whirl'd in passion's stormy clime,
They will not wander far.

X

Yet, where the wind blows, let them play,
And lightly o'er thy pathway lie;
Nor crush these dead leaves down i' the clay.
Fair, living, loving things were they.
They did not wish to die.

XI

They were the summers of my heart:
They are the memories of my youth.
Take them, for what they are—some part
Of what I was—things void of art,
But not devoid of truth.

XII

For, tho' thy princely heart retains
The loftiest sons of song in fee,
To thee these else-uncared-for strains
My own heart pours. In thine remains
Fit place for them, and me.

XIII

And thee my lays may please, tho' much
Unfit for praise by others sound.
Since music, little prized as such,
Hath, haply, power to find, and touch,
And wake to answering sound,

XIV

Some secret chord in hearts that take
Their pleasure from the voice that sings:—
Songs welcomed for the singer's sake,
Or for the memories they awake
Of half-forgotten things.

University of Virginia Library

DEDICATION.

(To J. F.)

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV