* * * * *
When Lelia touched the lute,
Not _then_ alone 'twas felt,
But when the sounds were mute,
In memory still they dwelt.
Sweet lute! in nightly slumbers
Still we heard thy morning numbers.
Ah, how could she who stole
Such breath from simple wire,
Be led, in pride of soul,
To string with gold her lyre?
Sweet lute! thy chords she breaketh;
Golden now the strings she waketh!
But where are all the tales
Her lute so sweetly told?
In lofty themes she fails,
And soft ones suit not gold.
Rich lute! we see thee glisten,
But, alas! no more we listen!
* * * * *
Young Love lived once in a humble shed,
Where roses breathing
And woodbines wreathing
Around the lattice their tendrils spread,
As wild and sweet as the life he led.
His garden flourisht,
For young Hope nourisht.
The infant buds with beams and showers;
But lips, tho' blooming, must still be fed,
And not even Love can live on flowers.
Alas! that Poverty's evil eye
Should e'er come hither,
Such sweets to wither!
The flowers laid down their heads to die,
And Hope fell sick as the witch drew nigh.
She came one morning.
Ere Love had warning,
And raised the latch, where the young god lay;
"Oh ho!" said Love--"is it you? good-by;"
So he oped the window and flew away!
* * * * *
Spirit of Joy, thy altar lies
In youthful hearts that hope like mine;
And 'tis the light of laughing eyes
That leads us to thy fairy shrine.
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