Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 14 1825.pdf/3



Ne'er err'd the prophet heart that Grief inspired, Though Joy's illusions mock their votarist. .

of music o'er the deep green hills, Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose, And sank in mournfulness.—There sat a bard, By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset's light Was in his wavy silver-gleaming hair, And the wind's whisper in the mountain-ash Whose clusters droop'd above. His head was bow'd, His hand was on his harp, yet thence its touch Had drawn but broken strains; and many stood Waiting around, in silent earnestness, Th' unchaining of his soul, the gush of song: Many and graceful forms: yet one alone Seem'd present to his dream, and she indeed, With her pale virgin brow, and changeful cheek, And the clear starlight of her serious eyes, Lovely amidst the flowing of dark locks, And pallid braiding flowers, was beautiful, Ev'n painfully!—a creature to behold With trembling midst our joy, lest aught unseen Should waft the vision from us, leaving earth Too dim, without its brightness!—Did such fear O'ershadow, in that hour, the gifted one, By his own rushing stream?—Once more he gazed Upon the radiant girl, and yet once more, From the deep chords his wandering hand brought out A few short festive notes, an opening strain Of bridal melody, soon dash'd with grief, As if some wailing spirit in the strings Met and o'ermaster'd him: but yielding then To the strong prophet impulse, mournfully, Like moaning waters, o'er the harp he pour'd The trouble of his haunted soul, and sang:—