One day, when wandering on the shore
That once was ruled by Marinell,
I found within a clefted rock
A strangely twisted, curious shell
With spiral whorls of pearly white,
And hollows tinged with roseate light.
This shell possessed a wondrous power,
For, placed against the listener's ear.
He heard, though gentle, faint, and low,
The tones of those he held most dear;
Though parted far by land or wave,
The faithful shell an echo gave.
"Oh, happy gift to man," said I;
"More precious than the painter's art;
How oft shalt thou, in distant climes,
Console the ever-faithful heart,
Bring back the cherished voice again,
And take from absence half its pain."
"Vain are thy thoughts," a nymph replied;
"For those who own it will lament
That never, through its echoes faint.
Can tidings from the loved be sent:
The distant sound is only caught,
But never word or message brought.
"'Twill only waken yearnings vain;
'Twill only pierce the heart anew,
And bring to mind with tenfold pain
The anguish of the last adieu.
When all is lost beyond recall,
'Tis better far a veil should fall."
She ceased. I turned, and threw the shell
Beneath the tossing, foaming tide;
Too well can memory waken grief,
That man should seek for aught beside.
Love needs it not; for love can last
When all the things of time are past.
