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. SHELLEY. SHE dwelt in proud Venetian halls, '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 ; Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue, As if ye might see how the soul wrought through; And every flash of her fervent eye Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy. Even thus it was !-from her childhood's years, A being of sudden smiles and tears,— Passionate visions, quick light and shade,- And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell, Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea, In the city's hour of moonlight glee,— Oft would that gift of the southern sky, O'erflow from her lips in melody ; Oft amid festal halls it came, Like the springing forth of a sudden flame— Till 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 Music floated her steps around; And every lay of her soul was borne Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn. And was the daughter of Venice blest, So many changes and dreams went by? And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought As if but born from the rush of thought? She moved, as a bark in the sunbeam's smile; For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord, All, all on a happy love was pour'd! How loves a heart, whence the stream of song Flows like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong? How loves a heart, which hath never proved One breath of the world?-Even so she loved! Blest, though the Lord of her soul afar, Was charging the foremost in Moslem war,- As a ruling star in the Grecian sky. Proud music breathed in her song, when Fame And her trust in his love was a woman's faith- But the fields are won from the Othman host, 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; G Cymbal and clarion, and voice, around, But happiest and brightest that day of all, Robed for her warrior's festival, Moving a Queen 'midst the radiant throng, As she rush'd in her joy to the crowded shore ; -One moment, Erminia! one moment more, The bark of her lover hath touched the strand Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand? |