Читать книгу The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 13, No. 386, August 22, 1829 - Various - Страница 3

Its music beareth o'er my widow'd heart

A tale of vanish'd innocence and love,

And bliss that screw'd around the ark of life

Sweet flow'rs of summer hue. It hath the tone,

The very tone which wrapt my spirit up,

In silent dreams mid visions. Oft, at eve,

I heard it wandering thro' the silver air,

As if some sylph had witch'd the stringed shell

Of woods and lonely fountains:—and the birds

That sang in the blue glow of heaven, the trees

That whisper'd like a timid maiden's lips,

The bees that kiss'd their bride-flow'rs into sleep,

All breath'd the spell of that enchanting lay!

Whence came it now? perchance from yonder dell,

O'er which the skies, in sunny beauty fix'd,

Their sapphire mantle hang. Its Eden home

Is in some beauteous place where faces beam

In loveliness and joy! To hail the morn,

The infant pours it from his rosy mouth,

Ere, o'er the fields, with blissful heart he roams,

To watch the syren lark, or mark the sun

Surround with golden light the rainbow clouds.

That music-lay awak'd within my heart

Thoughts, that had wept themselves to death, like clouds

In summer hours.—It brought before mine eyes

The haunts so often worshipped, the forms

Revealing heav'n and holiness in vain.

Alas, sweet lay, the freshness of the heart

Is wasted, like an unfed stream, away;

And dreams of Home, by Fancy treasurd up,

Remain as wrecks around the tomb of Being!