 | Selections from the American poets |  |
114
TO A LADY WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN ABSENT SISTER.
Oh! touch the chord yet once again,
Nor chide me though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.
Nor chide me though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.
It murmur'd of an absent friend;
The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.
The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.
And days and months have darkly pass'd
Since last I listen'd to her lay;
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.
Since last I listen'd to her lay;
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.
Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,
Like seraph-whispers lightly breathing;
Hush, busy Memory, Sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou art weaving.
Like seraph-whispers lightly breathing;
Hush, busy Memory, Sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou art weaving.
'Tis sweet, though sad—yes, I will stay,
I cannot tear myself away.
I thank thee, lady, for the strain,
The tempest of my soul is still;
Then touch the chord yet once again,
For thou canst calm the storm at will.
I cannot tear myself away.
I thank thee, lady, for the strain,
The tempest of my soul is still;
Then touch the chord yet once again,
For thou canst calm the storm at will.
| Selections from the American poets | |