The coronal a collection of miscellaneous pieces, written at various times |
TO A LADY,
CELEBRATED FOR MUSICAL TALENT. |
 | The coronal |  |
30
TO A LADY,
CELEBRATED FOR MUSICAL TALENT.
“Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world so filled;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute, still air,
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.”
Not to love all things in a world so filled;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute, still air,
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.”
Coleridge.
Thanks, Orphea, thanks! Thy magic spell
Has waked my soul to sound;
And deep within a sealed well
A spring of joy is found!
My ear was like the wayward strings,
Which the wild winds breathe o'er;
And fitful in its echoings,
Has my spirit been before!
But something in my inmost heart
Responds to each touch of thine,—
And bids me own thy wond'rous art
The soul of the “tuneful Nine.”
Yes, all I've dream'd of bright or fair,
Is but embodied sound—
Music is floating on the air,
In every thing around!
Has waked my soul to sound;
And deep within a sealed well
A spring of joy is found!
My ear was like the wayward strings,
Which the wild winds breathe o'er;
And fitful in its echoings,
Has my spirit been before!
But something in my inmost heart
Responds to each touch of thine,—
And bids me own thy wond'rous art
The soul of the “tuneful Nine.”
Yes, all I've dream'd of bright or fair,
Is but embodied sound—
Music is floating on the air,
In every thing around!
31
All Nature hath of breezy grace,
In motion swift and free,
Each lovely hue upon her face,
Is living melody.
Well might thy witchery inspire
The bard's enraptured lay,
And flashes of prophetic fire
Around thy fingers play;
But vainly would the haunted king
Have sought relief from thee,—
For chain'd had been each demon's wing
By thy rich minstrelsy.
Priestess of a mighty power!
My spirit worships thee;
For inspiration is thy dower—
Thy voice is poetry!
In motion swift and free,
Each lovely hue upon her face,
Is living melody.
Well might thy witchery inspire
The bard's enraptured lay,
And flashes of prophetic fire
Around thy fingers play;
But vainly would the haunted king
Have sought relief from thee,—
For chain'd had been each demon's wing
By thy rich minstrelsy.
Priestess of a mighty power!
My spirit worships thee;
For inspiration is thy dower—
Thy voice is poetry!
| The coronal | |