Awake, thou Harp! with music stored,
Awake! and let me feel thy power;
Fling forth, in turn, from every chord,
The thronging notes in ceaseless shower.
Following thy measures, as they rise,
Upfloating forms of every hue
Shall flit before my half-closed eyes,
And I will dream the visions true.
Breathless I list the streaming wires,
Responsive to the minstrel-hand,
While faded hopes and young desires
Come stealing back, a pensive band;
Ah! now I know the sounds too well
Thy murmuring strings are fain to move,
For when may Memory cease to dwell
On Her, who loved that lay of love!
For She could win thine every key,
From strains that suit a lady's bower,
To fits of wildest minstrelsy
From moonlight glen or lonely tower.
Bold swelling notes of war—yet such
The most as told of pity near—
She loved them all! and every touch
Recals my wandering thoughts to Her.
Vain dreams, away! In vacant mood
Now let my wearied heart recline;
No more I call on Fancy's brood
To mix, sweet Harp! their spells with thine.
Like one who drifts in idle boat
Unoared, and heedless whither bound,
Thus, languid laid, oh! let me float
Adown thy silvery stream of sound.
'Tis soft as evening's dewy sigh,
Sweeter than summer's balmiest breath;
Half conscious—half entranced—I lie,
And seem to touch the verge of death.
And, thus beguiled, how blest it were
To cross that dark and fated sea!
Then, just escaped this world of care,
To wake, and—Nea! dwell with Thee!
