 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
MY FOREST HARP.
I.
My forest harp! though late I threw thee,In passion's madness from my grasp,
Yet now with better thoughts I woo thee,
And once again thy strings I clasp:
And though I left thee long forsaken,
Trust me the grief was mine alone;
The strings about my heart were shaken,
But thine were true in every tone!
II.
Oh! fond as true; since now the sadness,That better speaks the heart subdued,
Usurps thy former notes of gladness,
And suits our forest solitude;—
I better love thy strains of wailing
Than livelier tones of joy and youth—
That mournful plaint, those murmurs failing,
That speak of wo, and speak in truth.
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III.
What though the world may frown upon thee,And scorn the song that can not soar?
Thou wilt not heed the crowds that shun thee,
If I but love thy strains the more!
With thee, within the forest hidden,
I summon gentlest spirits nigh;
And some that seek our groves unbidden,
Yield song for song, and sigh for sigh.
IV.
Fair forms that live in realms of sadness,These hallow, as they hear, thy strain,
And, truer far than things of gladness,
Requite the love that others feign!
No fleeting pledge is theirs of feeling,
For death has sealed the vows they make,
And still their plaints their love revealing,
Soothe all the pangs they yet partake!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |