To a Lady Who Had Been Singing
The spirit-harp within the breast
A spirit’s touch alone can know,—
Yet thine the power to wake its rest,
And bid its echoing numbers flow.
Yes,—and thy minstrel art the while,
Can blend the tones of weal and we,
So archly, that the heart may smile,
Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.
And thus thy wizard skill can weave
Music’s soft twilight o’er the breast,
As mingling day and night, at eve,
Robe the far purpling hills for rest.
Thy voice is treasured in my soul,
And echoing memory shall prolong
Those woman tones, whose sweet control
Melts joy and sorrow into song.
The tinted sea-shell, borne away
Far from the ocean’s pebbly shore,
Still loves to hum the choral lay,
The whispering mermaid taught of yore.
The hollow cave, that once hath known
Echo’s lone voice, can ne’er forget—
But gives—though parting years have flown—
The wild responsive cadence yet.
So shall thy plaintive melody,
Undying, linger in my heart,
Till the last string of memory,
By death’s chill finger struck, shall part!