THE BROKEN LUTE. But that orphan form, with its willowy grace, 255 And the speaking prayer in that pale, calm face, Still, still o'er my thoughts in the night-hour glide — -Oh! Love is lovelier than all beside. THE BROKEN LUTE. "When the lamp is shatter'd, The light in the dust lies dead; When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet sounds are remember'd not; When the words are spoken, Loved accents are soon forgot. As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is mute." SHE dwelt in proud Venetian halls, SHELLEY. 'Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls; But a glow of beauty like her own, There had no dream of the painter thrown. Lit from within was her noble brow, As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow; Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy. Even thus it was!-from her childhood's A being of sudden smiles and tears years Passionate visions, quick light and shade, Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, Oft amid festal halls it came, Like the springing forth of a sudden flameTill the dance was hush'd, and the silvery tone Of her inspiration was heard alone. And fame went with her, the bright, the crown'd, And every lay of her soul was borne And was the daughter of Venice blest She moved as a bark in the sunbeam's smile; THE BROKEN LUTE. 257 How loves a heart, whence the stream of song Proud music breathed in her song, when fame But the fields are won from the Othman host, In the land that quell'd the Persian's boast, And a thousand hearts in Venice burn, For the day of triumph and return! -The day is come! the flashing deep Foams where the galleys of victory sweep; And the sceptred city of the wave, With her festal splendour greets the brave; Cymbal and clarion, and voice, around, Make the air one stream of exulting sound, While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, Look from each hall of the hundred isles. But happiest and brightest that day of all, As she rush'd in her joy to the crowded shore; With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow The bark of her lover hath touch'd the strand. And the eye, in its clear soft darkness meek, But how stood she, the forsaken, there, Struck by the lightning of swift despair? Still, as amazed with grief, she stood, And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood, As it dropp'd from her hand at her rival's feet, What more remaineth? her day was done; Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one! The light, the vision, the gift of power Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour, Like the rich sound from the shatter'd string, Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring! THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. As an eagle struck in his upward flight, She had moved to the echoing sound of fame- Silently melted her life away, As ye have seen a young flower decay, 259 Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd, expire, THE BURIAL IN THE DESERT. "How weeps yon gallant band O'er him their valour could not save! For the bayonet is red with gore, And he, the beautiful and brave, WILSON. IN the shadow of the pyramid The blood-red sky above us |