Page:Felicia Hemans in The New Monthly Magazine Volume 23 1828.pdf/2



lyre hung murmuring To the wild wind of the sea;— "O melancholy wind," it sigh'd,    "What would thy breath with me?

"Thou canst not wake the spirit    That in me slumbering lies; Thou strik'st not forth th' electric fire     Of buried melodies.

"Wind of the lone dark waters!    Thou dost but sweep my strings Into wild gusts of mournfulness     With the rushing of thy wings.

"But the gift, the spell, the lightning,    Within my frame conceal'd— Must I moulder on the rock away,     With their triumphs unreveal'd?

"I have power, high power, for Freedom    To wake the burning soul; I have sounds that through the ancient hills     Like a torrent's voice might roll:

"I have pealing notes of Victory,    That might welcome kings from war; I have rich deep tones to send the wail     For a Hero's death afar:

"I have chords to lift the Pæan    From the Temple to the sky, Full as the forest-unisons,     When sweeping winds are high.

"And Love—for Love's lone sorrow    I have music that might swell Through the summer-air with the rose's breath,     Or the violet's faint farewell.

"Soft—spiritual—mournful—    Sighs in each note enshrined;— But who shall call that sweetness forth?     Thou canst not, Ocean-wind!

"No kindling heart gives echoes    To the passion of my strain; I perish with my wasted gifts,     Vain is that dower—all vain!

"I pass without my glory,    Forgotten I decay— Where is the touch to give me life? —Wild fitful wind, away!"

So sigh'd the broken music, That in gladness had no part;— — How like art thou, neglected lyre! To many a human heart!F. H.