You bid the minstrel strike the lute,
And wake once more a soothing tone--
Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute,
Or only echo moan for moan.
The flowers around it twined are dead,
And those who wreathed them there, are flown;
The spring that gave them bloom is fled,
And winter's frost is o'er them thrown.
Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care,
I fain would try thy strings once more,--
Perchance some lingering tone is there--
Some cherished melody of yore.
If flowers that bloom no more are here,
Their odors still around us cling--
And though the loved are lost-still dear,
Their memories may wake the string.
I strike--but lo, the wonted thrill,
Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies:
Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill,
And the sad lute, responsive, sighs.
'Tis ever thus--our life begins,
In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet--
We taste and knowledge, with our sins,
Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat.
In youth, the sun brings light alone--
No shade then rests upon the sight--
But when the beaming morn is flown,
We see the shadows--not the light
I once found music every where--
The whistle from the willow wrung--
The string, set in the window, there,
Sweet measures to my fancy flung.
But now, this dainty lute is dead--
Or answers but to sigh and wail,
Echoing the voices of the fled,
Passing before me dim and pale!
Yet angel forms are in that train,
And One upon the still air flings,
Of woven melody, a strain,
Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings.
'Tis past--that Speaking Form is flown--
But memory's pleased and listening ear,
Shall oft recall that choral tone,
To love and poetry so dear.
And far away in after time,
Shall blended Piety and Love
Find fond expression in the rhyme,
Bequeathed to earth by One above.
* * * * *
Poor lute!--thy bounding pulse is still,--
Yet all thy silence I forgive,
That thus thy last--thy dying thrill,
Would make Her gentle virtues live!
[Footnote A: Written by request for the "Memorial," a work published in
New-York, 1850, in commemoration of the late Frances S. Osgood,--edited
by Mary E. Hewett.]
The Old Oak.
[Illustration: The Old Oak]
Friend of my early days, we meet once more!
Once more I stand thine aged boughs beneath,
And hear again the rustling music pour,
Along thy leaves, as whispering spirits breathe.
Full many a day of sunshine and of storm,
Since last we parted, both have surely known;
Thy leaves are thinned, decrepit is thy form,--
And all my cherished visions, they are flown!
How beautiful, how brief, those sunny hours
Departed now, when life was in its spring--
When Fancy knew no scene undecked with flowers,
And Expectation flew on Fancy's wing!
Here, on the bank, beside this whispering stream,
Which still runs by as gayly as of yore,
Marking its eddies, I was wont to dream
Of things away, on some far fairy shore.
Then every whirling leaf and bubbling ball,
That floated by, was full of radiant thought;
Each linked with love, had music at its call,
And thrilling echoes o'er my bosom brought.
The bird that sang within this gnarled oak,
The waves that dallied with its leafy shade,
The mellow murmurs from its boughs that broke,
Their joyous tribute to my spirit paid.
No phantom rose to tell of future ill,
No grisly warning marr'd my prophet dreams--
My heart translucent as the leaping rill,
My thoughts all free and flashing at its beams.
Here is the grassy knoll I used to seek
At summer noon, beneath the spreading shade,
And watch the flowers that stooped with glowing cheek,
To meet the romping ripples as they played.
Here is the spot which memory's magic glass
Hath often brought, arrayed in fadeless green,
Making this oak, this brook, this waving grass--
A simple group--fond Nature's fairest scene.
And as I roamed beside the Rhone or Rhine,
Or other favored stream, in after days,
With jealous love, this rivulet would shine,
Full on my heart, and claim accustomed praise.
And oh! how oft by sorrow overborne,
By care oppressed, or bitter malice wrung,
By friends betrayed, or disappointment torn,
My weary heart, all sickened and unstrung--
Hath yearned to leave the bootless strife afar,
And find beneath this oak a quiet grave,
Where the rough echo of the world's loud jar,
Yields to the music of the mellow wave!
And now again I stand this stream beside;
Again I hear the silver ripples flow--
I mark the whispers murmuring o'er the tide,
And the light bubbles trembling as they go.
But oh! the magic-spell that lingered here,
In boyhood's golden age, my heart to bless,
With the bright waves that rippled then so clear,
Is lost in ocean's dull forgetfulness.
Gone are the visions of that glorious time--
Gone are the glancing birds I loved so well,
Nor will they wake again their silver chime,
From the deep tomb of night in which they dwell!
And if perchance some fleeting memories steal,
Like far-off echoes to my dreaming ear,
Away, ungrasped, the cheating visions wheel,
As spectres start upon the wing of fear.
Alas! the glorious sun, which then was high,
Touching each common thing with rosy light,
Is darkly banished from the lowering sky--
And life's dull onward pathway lies, in night.
Yes--I am changed--and this gray gnarled form,
Its leaves all scattered by the rending blast,
Is but an image of my heart;--the storm--
The storm of life, doth make us such at last!
Farewell, old oak! I leave thee to the wind,
And go to struggle with the chafing tide--
Soon to the dust thy form shall be resigned,
And I would sleep thy crumbling limbs beside.
Thy memory will pass; thy sheltering shade,
Will weave no more its tissue o'er the sod;
And all thy leaves, ungathered in the glade,
Shall, by the reckless hoof of time, be trod.
My cherished hopes, like shadows and like leaves,
Name, fame, and fortune--each shall pass away;
And all that castle-building fancy weaves,
Shall sleep, unthinking, as the drowsy clay.
But from thy root another tree shall bloom--
With living leaves its tossing boughs shall rise;
And the winged spirit--bursting from the tomb,--
Oh, shall it spring to light beyond these skies?
To a Wild Violet, in March.
[Illustration: To a Wild Violet, in March]
My pretty flower,
How cam'st thou here?
Around thee all
Is sad and sere,--
The brown leaves tell
Of winter's breath,
And all but thou
Of doom and death.
The naked forest
Shivering sighs,--
On yonder hill
The snow-wreath lies,
And all is bleak--
Then say, sweet flower,
Whence cam'st thou here
In such an hour?
No tree unfolds its timid bud--
Chill pours the hill-side's lurid flood--
The tuneless forest all is dumb--
Whence then, fair violet, didst thou come?
Spring hath not scattered yet her flowers,
But lingers still in southern bowers;
No gardener's art hath cherished thee,
For wild and lone thou springest free.
Thou springest here to man unknown,
Waked into life by God alone!
Sweet flower--thou tellest well thy birth,--
Thou cam'st from Heaven, though soiled in earth!
Illusions.