chance that threw within his reach Fragments and symbols of the bliss unknown? Was it vague hope that murmured down the beach, Tuning the billows and the cavern's moan? Oft through the aching void the promise thrilled: "Thou shalt be loved, and Time shall pay his debt." Silence returns upon the wish fulfilled, Joy for a year, and then a sweet regret. Idol, mine Idol, whom this touch profanes, Pass as thou cam'st across the glimmering seas: All, all is lost but memory's sacred pains; Leave me, oh leave me, ere I forfeit these.
A FABLE
An eager girl, whose father buys Some ruined thane's forsaken hall, Explores the new domain, and tries Before the rest to view it all. Alone she lifts the latch, and glides Through many a sadly curtained room, As daylight through the doorway slides And struggles with the muffled gloom. With mimicries of dance she wakes The lordly gallery's silent floor, And climbing up on tiptoe, makes The old-world mirror smile once more. With tankards dry she chills her lip, With yellowing laces veils the head, And leaps in pride of ownership Upon the faded marriage bed. A harp in some dark nook she sees, Long left a prey to heat and frost. She smites it: can such tinklings please? Is not all worth, all beauty, lost? Ah! who'd have thought such sweetness clung To loose neglected strings like those? They answered to whate'er was sung, And sounded as the lady chose. Her pitying finger hurried by Each vacant space, each slackened chord; Nor would her wayward zeal let die The music-spirit she restored. The fashion quaint, the time-worn flaws, The narrow range, the doubtful tone, All was excused awhile, because It seemed a creature of her own. Perfection tires; the new in old, The mended wrecks that need her skill, Amuse her. If the truth be told, She loves the triumph of her will. With this, she dares herself persuade, She'll be for many a month content, Quite sure no duchess ever played Upon a sweeter instrument. And thus in sooth she can beguile Girlhood's romantic hours: but soon She yields to taste and mode and style, A siren of the gay saloon; And wonders how she once could like Those drooping wires, those failing notes, And leaves her toy for bats to strike Amongst the cobwebs and the motes. But enter in, thou freezing wind, And snap the harp-strings one by one;
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