Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems By the Lady E. Stuart Wortley. In Three Vols |
 | I, II, III. |
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THE LAMP—THE LYRE—THE HEART! |
 | Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems |  |
THE LAMP—THE LYRE—THE HEART!
The Lamp is flickering faint and low,
With a waning, wavering flame;
With a dubious light—a fluttering glow,
As with some unsteadfast aim.
With a waning, wavering flame;
With a dubious light—a fluttering glow,
As with some unsteadfast aim.
The Lyre is pouring harsh strange sounds,
'Tis an unmelodious strain;
Transgressing harmony's sweet bounds:
Oh! touch it not again!
'Tis an unmelodious strain;
Transgressing harmony's sweet bounds:
Oh! touch it not again!
439
That flickering Lamp is fed no more,
Untuned that harsh-voiced Lyre—
And can no care, no art restore
The music—and the fire?
Untuned that harsh-voiced Lyre—
And can no care, no art restore
The music—and the fire?
Yes! yes! the sweetness of the tone,
The brightness of the flame,
That now appear for ever flown—
Shall yet be made the same!
The brightness of the flame,
That now appear for ever flown—
Shall yet be made the same!
The same e'en as they were before—
All melody—all light—
Yes! art and care shall swift restore
These things, with magic might!—
All melody—all light—
Yes! art and care shall swift restore
These things, with magic might!—
But what of thee, thou broken Heart!
Whose flame is flickering low?
Alas! no care, no skill, no art
Shall e'er repair that glow!
Whose flame is flickering low?
Alas! no care, no skill, no art
Shall e'er repair that glow!
440
Thy precious music-throbbings hushed!—
Dull silence locks thy chords—
The broken heart—chilled, blighted, crushed—
Weeps blood for want of words.
Dull silence locks thy chords—
The broken heart—chilled, blighted, crushed—
Weeps blood for want of words.
The Lamp, the Lyre—shall boast once more
Their fiery—silvery sway—
But, Heart, no skill shall thee restore,
That mourn'st thine own decay!
Their fiery—silvery sway—
But, Heart, no skill shall thee restore,
That mourn'st thine own decay!
Trim, trim the Lamp, and tune the Lyre,
But torture not the Heart—
'Twere vain!—in peace let that expire,
'Tis best it should depart!
But torture not the Heart—
'Twere vain!—in peace let that expire,
'Tis best it should depart!
Should it survive its joys, its hope,
Its music, and its light,
In dull dead languor's gloom to droop
Beneath the mortal blight,—
Its music, and its light,
In dull dead languor's gloom to droop
Beneath the mortal blight,—
441
How harsh, how heavy were its fate,
In that cold stony rest;
Feeling it now is desolate,
And that it hath been blest!
In that cold stony rest;
Feeling it now is desolate,
And that it hath been blest!
Heart, whose winged fiery dreams are past,
Whose melodies are crushed,
Take refuge from the storm, the blast,
Where every pang is hushed!
Whose melodies are crushed,
Take refuge from the storm, the blast,
Where every pang is hushed!
| Queen Berengaria's Courtesy, and Other Poems | |