THE HARP OF SORROW.
I gave my Harp to Sorrow's hand,
And she has ruled the chords so long,
They will not speak at my command;—
They warble only to her song.
Of dear departed hours,
Too fondly loved to last,
The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers,
Snapt in their freshness by the blast:
Of long, long years of future care,
Till lingering Nature yields her breath,
And endless ages of despair,
Beyond the judgment-day of death:—
The weeping Minstrel sings;
And while her numbers flow,
My spirit trembles with the strings,
Responsive to the notes of woe.
Would gladness move a sprightlier strain,
And wake this wild Harp's clearest tones,
The chords, impatient to complain,
Are dumb, or only utter moans.
And yet, to soothe the mind
With luxury of grief,
The soul to suffering all resign'd
In Sorrow's music feels relief.
Thus o'er the light Æolian lyre
The winds of dark November stray,
Touch the quick nerve of every wire,
And on its magic pulses play;—
Till all the air around,
Mysterious murmurs fill,
A strange bewildering dream of sound,
Most heavenly sweet,—yet mournful still.
O! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand,
Hope! who hast been a stranger long;
O! strike it with sublime command,
And be the Poet's life thy song.
Of vanish'd troubles sing,
Of fears for ever fled,
Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring,
And burst and blossom from the dead;—
Of home, contentment, health, repose,
Serene delights, while years increase;
And weary life's triumphant close
In some calm sunset hour of peace;—
Of bliss that reigns above,
Celestial May of Youth,
Unchanging as Jehovah's love,
And everlasting as his truth:—
Sing, heavenly Hope!—and dart thine hand
O'er my frail Harp, untuned so long;
That Harp shall breathe, at thy command,
Immortal sweetness through thy song.
Ah! then, this gloom control,
And at thy voice shall start
A new creation in my soul,
A native Eden in my heart.
1807.
