 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
150
THIS LONELY HOME AT LEAST IS FREE.
This lonely home at least is free,
And here my harp may wake,
Unheard, the song that tells of thee,
Remember'd for thy sake;
That lyre, so loved in other days,
May well recall the words of praise,
That soothed its infant fears—
When thou and Hope, alike, were young,
And Feeling, as each lay was sung,
Repaid the toil with tears.
And here my harp may wake,
Unheard, the song that tells of thee,
Remember'd for thy sake;
That lyre, so loved in other days,
May well recall the words of praise,
That soothed its infant fears—
When thou and Hope, alike, were young,
And Feeling, as each lay was sung,
Repaid the toil with tears.
Those chords in mournful silence long
Deplored thy hapless fate,
Till Memory came to wake the song,
Which yet sounds desolate;
When thou grew'st silent all was dumb,
No fancy could the spell o'ercome,
Thy loss o'er life had cast;
But as the sorrow grew subdued,
Thy image fill'd the solitude,
Though still it mock'd the past.
Deplored thy hapless fate,
Till Memory came to wake the song,
Which yet sounds desolate;
When thou grew'st silent all was dumb,
No fancy could the spell o'ercome,
Thy loss o'er life had cast;
But as the sorrow grew subdued,
Thy image fill'd the solitude,
Though still it mock'd the past.
Oh! Memory still her chaunt renews,
Though not with former tone;
She can not, and she would not choose,
Forget that she is lone:
That, if thou hear'st her tribute strain,
Thou dost not answer it again,
As still thou didst of yore;
She dreams that thou art nigh, but sees
No more, as Love and Fancy please,
And weeps and sighs the more!
Though not with former tone;
She can not, and she would not choose,
Forget that she is lone:
That, if thou hear'st her tribute strain,
Thou dost not answer it again,
As still thou didst of yore;
She dreams that thou art nigh, but sees
No more, as Love and Fancy please,
And weeps and sighs the more!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |