 | Poems |  |
7
INTRODUCTORY STANZAS.
Who has not heard of Memnon's Harp of yore?
Which, ever as the blushing morning broke,
And golden sun-beams play'd its light chords o'er,
From silence into wild sweet strains awoke;—
Just such the spell-formed Harp I bear;—awhile
Silent and frozen sleeps its every string,
Yet, once awoke by Beauty's melting smile,
How richly then each tender chord will ring!
Which, ever as the blushing morning broke,
And golden sun-beams play'd its light chords o'er,
From silence into wild sweet strains awoke;—
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Silent and frozen sleeps its every string,
Yet, once awoke by Beauty's melting smile,
How richly then each tender chord will ring!
And, when the last faint daylight tints were dying,
The while o'er Memnon's Harp they trembling fell,
In sad sweet strains its magic numbers sighing,
Hymn'd out departing splendour's last fare-well;—
Just so my way ward Harp—it pensive sighs,
Touch'd by the parting glance of Beauty's mien;
Forth as she goes, in one sad strain it dies,
And only wakes to life when she is seen.
The while o'er Memnon's Harp they trembling fell,
In sad sweet strains its magic numbers sighing,
Hymn'd out departing splendour's last fare-well;—
Just so my way ward Harp—it pensive sighs,
Touch'd by the parting glance of Beauty's mien;
Forth as she goes, in one sad strain it dies,
And only wakes to life when she is seen.
The Nightingale, sweet Poet of the Rose,
Sings only while the flower he loves is blowing;
When summer suns her beauty's buds disclose,
Then first his lay is heard, their fragrance wooing:
And thus my song, whose burthen still is Love,
Beauty's warm presence can alone inspire;
Only her blushing charms its praise can move,
And wake the notes of wonder and desire.
Sings only while the flower he loves is blowing;
When summer suns her beauty's buds disclose,
Then first his lay is heard, their fragrance wooing:
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Beauty's warm presence can alone inspire;
Only her blushing charms its praise can move,
And wake the notes of wonder and desire.
And as his song forsakes the love-lorn bird,
In that sad season when the flower decays,
And, sympathetic, his last close is heard,
When her last fading flush wounds his fond gaze;
So ceases the fond song I breathe, whene'er
Inspiring Beauty is no longer near me,
Nor will it sound to soothe the pangs I bear,
But flies with her who only else could cheer me!
In that sad season when the flower decays,
And, sympathetic, his last close is heard,
When her last fading flush wounds his fond gaze;
So ceases the fond song I breathe, whene'er
Inspiring Beauty is no longer near me,
Nor will it sound to soothe the pangs I bear,
But flies with her who only else could cheer me!
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