The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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ON HEARING AN OLD SONG PLAYED BY A YOUNG LADY. |
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 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
ON HEARING AN OLD SONG PLAYED BY A YOUNG LADY.
Touch me those notes again,
That old, familiar song,
Those chords of mingled joy and pain,
Remembered, though not heard, so long!
That old, familiar song,
Those chords of mingled joy and pain,
Remembered, though not heard, so long!
Touch me those notes once more,
And so transport me back
To when I heard them first of yore,
Although it stretch me on the rack!
And so transport me back
To when I heard them first of yore,
Although it stretch me on the rack!
With chords melodious,
On Music's rack fast bind
This heart, which torture feels, while thus
Anguish and bliss are intertwined!
On Music's rack fast bind
This heart, which torture feels, while thus
Anguish and bliss are intertwined!
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My heart-strings are the strings,
My heart th'invisible lyre,
On which thou play'st memorial things,
Kindling it with a touch of fire.
My heart th'invisible lyre,
On which thou play'st memorial things,
Kindling it with a touch of fire.
It seems her very hand,
The touch of her I loved,
Which had all music at command,
And all it touched still more improved.
The touch of her I loved,
Which had all music at command,
And all it touched still more improved.
That hand is cold and dead,
That lyre too, my heart,
Which it to themes divine had wed,
Unstrung, and, tuneless, set apart.
That lyre too, my heart,
Which it to themes divine had wed,
Unstrung, and, tuneless, set apart.
Its chords are loosed, and sighs,
As o'er a waste the wind,
Make on them funeral-melodies,
With pause, like death itself, behind!
As o'er a waste the wind,
Make on them funeral-melodies,
With pause, like death itself, behind!
Else, haply, now 't would play
Things worthier of the theme,
Sweet music, sounding far away,
Into the realms of bliss supreme!
Things worthier of the theme,
Sweet music, sounding far away,
Into the realms of bliss supreme!
And there be heard by her,
And, if her gentle heart
Of Mortal things feel there the stir,
Memorial yearnings might impart.
And, if her gentle heart
Of Mortal things feel there the stir,
Memorial yearnings might impart.
But she feels grief no more,
An angel ministrant
Of Mercy now, she doth explore
The realms of bliss, and pardon grant!
An angel ministrant
Of Mercy now, she doth explore
The realms of bliss, and pardon grant!
There comes a rush of thought,
That like a torrent sweeps,
And, with the Present's traces fraught,
Loses itself in unknown deeps!
That like a torrent sweeps,
And, with the Present's traces fraught,
Loses itself in unknown deeps!
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Or like a rushing wind,
That bends the highest trees,
Leaving their proud tops bowed behind,
Quivering long after it doth cease!
That bends the highest trees,
Leaving their proud tops bowed behind,
Quivering long after it doth cease!
Rapt on the wings of song,
My soul is borne away,
With wake as musical and long,
As doth the upward lark betray!
My soul is borne away,
With wake as musical and long,
As doth the upward lark betray!
Lost to the present all,
And singing out of sight,
Yet heard, with voice memorial,
And made by distance exquisite!
And singing out of sight,
Yet heard, with voice memorial,
And made by distance exquisite!
Far in the golden Past,
The dawning of old days,
Rerisen on the overcast
And sombre noon of my life's race.
The dawning of old days,
Rerisen on the overcast
And sombre noon of my life's race.
Touch me those chords again,
By which the very soul
Of music, exquisite to pain,
Is brought at once beneath controul!
By which the very soul
Of music, exquisite to pain,
Is brought at once beneath controul!
Touch me those chords once more,
Whose wonder-working art
Can make the heart's old founts to pour,
And, in the waste, afresh to start!
Whose wonder-working art
Can make the heart's old founts to pour,
And, in the waste, afresh to start!
Touch me those strings divine,
And let me triumph so
O'er Time, for though the hand be thine,
To her I still the music owe!
And let me triumph so
O'er Time, for though the hand be thine,
To her I still the music owe!
'Tis she who gives it all,
The charm which doth abide,
Who makes it more than musical
For me, and none, none, none beside!
The charm which doth abide,
Who makes it more than musical
For me, and none, none, none beside!
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Pardon me what I say:
Not to disparage thee
'Tis said—but Love will have his way,
And thou, though more, could'st not be she!
Not to disparage thee
'Tis said—but Love will have his way,
And thou, though more, could'st not be she!
To thee this withered rose
Is but a faded flower,
To me with spring and youth it glows,
With spells of beauty and of power!
Is but a faded flower,
To me with spring and youth it glows,
With spells of beauty and of power!
Yet let me thank the hand
Which waked those chords again,
E'en though it may not understand
The secret of their joy or pain!
Which waked those chords again,
E'en though it may not understand
The secret of their joy or pain!
Though, ignorant, it enrich
Those chords with heavenlier strains
Than chords ere made, save those on which
Love plays his dívine joys and pains!
Those chords with heavenlier strains
Than chords ere made, save those on which
Love plays his dívine joys and pains!
To me it is as though
Some angel, in the clouds,
Had touched a lyre divine, below
Heard but by one of all earth's crowds!
Some angel, in the clouds,
Had touched a lyre divine, below
Heard but by one of all earth's crowds!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |