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Should some notes, we used to love
In days of boyhood, meet our ear, Oh how welcome breathes the strain !
Wakening thoughts that long have slept ; Kindling former smiles again,
In faded eyes that long have wept!
Like the gale that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
That once was heard in happier hours ;
Though the flowers have sunk in death ; So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath!
Music!-oh! how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell! Why should feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? Friendship’s balmy words may feign,
Love's are even more false than they ;
Oh! 'tis only Music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray!
IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.*
It is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept,
Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; 'Tis the sad remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded !
Oh! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's light, While it shines through our hearts, will improve
* These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who died lately at Madeira.
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he lived but to love them!
To shrines where they've been lying,
From the image he left there in dying !
THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.
I. 'Tis believed that this Harp, which I wake now for
thee, Was a Siren of old, who sung
under the sea ; And who, often at eve, through the bright billow roved, To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.
But she loved him in vain, for he left her to'weep, And in tears, all the night, her gold ringlets to steep, Till Heaven look’d, with pity, on true-love so warm, And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form!
Still her bosom rose fair-still her cheek smiled the
While her sea-beauties gracefully curld 'round the
frame And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all its bright
rings, Fell over her white arm, to make the gold strings !*
* This thought was suggested by an ingenious design, prefixed to an ode upon St. Cecilia, published some years since, by Mr. Hudson of Dublin.
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