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THE WISH.
Oh, it is not on lip or brow
On which you may read change;
But it is in the heart below
That much of new and strange
Lies hidden. Woe the hour betide
That ever they had aught to hide!
My step is in the lighted hall,
Roses are round my hair,
And my laugh rings as if of all
I were the gayest there;
And tell me, if 'mid these around,
Lighter word or smile be found.
But come not on my solitude,
Mine after-hour of gloom,
When silent lip and sullen brow
Contrast the light and bloom,
Which seem'd a short while past to be
As if they were a part of me.
As the red wreaths that bind my hair
Are artificial flowers,
Made for, and only meant to wear
When amid festal hours:
Just so the smiles that round me play
Are false, and flung aside, as they.
And when the reckless crowd among
I speak of one sweet art,
How lightly can I name the song,
Which yet has wrung my heart!
That lute and heart alike have chords
Not to be spoken of in words—
Or spoken but when the dew goes
On its sweet pilgrimage,
Or when its ray the moonbeam throws
Upon the lighted page,
On which the burning heart has pour'd
The treasures of its secret hoard.
These are the poet's hours! oh! these,—
Secret, and still, and deep—
The hot noon lull'd by singing bees
Or the blue midnight's sleep.
When odour, wind, and star, and flower
Are ruling, is the poet's hour.
But ill betide the time when he
Shall wish to hear his song
Borne from its own sweet secrecy
On words of praise along:
Alas for fame! 'tis as the sun
That withers what it shines upon.
My lute is but a humble lute,
Yet o'er it have been thrown
Those laurel leaves, that well might suit
With one of loftier tone.
And yet is there one chord appears
Unwet with sad and secret tears?
