Page:Poems of Sentiment and Imagination.djvu/91

Rh To other ears before; but 'twas the strain

The wind awakens passing o'er a lyre—

The natural melody the young heart yields

Even to love's lightest whisper. But there came

At length a master, with the power to thrill

The finest chord in all the spirit's being.

Thou wert the master; and thy hand awoke

All of the slumbering music in my soul—

The strain whose echo lingers in my heart,

Resounding through its labyrinths forever.

But 'tis the echo only that remains;

The strain is still forever, and the chords

Of the soft lyre that thrilled so wildly then,

Would break in shrinking from the very touch

That once made such sweet singing. But 'tis past.

I have been sad and happy many times

Since we together have e'er wept or smiled;

And my heart beats as ever was its wont—

Slowly and pensively—save now and then,

When the desire for love grows suddenly strong,

And all the slumbering lava of the heart

Pours itself through the channels of the blood,

Making thought feverish, and the pulses high.

But this was in my nature, and 'twas this

Pining for love, and pride of intellect,

That made thee seem so godlike in my eyes.

But thou of all thy glory hast been shorn,

And thy great gifts are nothing to the shame

Of the mean sin of falsehood. I forget

The selfish thought that thy deceit wronged me,

In sorrow for the ruin that was wrought

In the most perfect beauty of the soul,

When the vail parted, and I saw untruth

Wedded to bright-browed wisdom.

Let it pass!

Or I shall make a lecture, which I meant not,

For I began by talking of the moon.