BROKEN BARBITON.
145
Stole softly, calmly, beautifully through
The parted vines that bloomed and clustered o'er
The window of an humble cottage home,
And fell upon the white brow of the dead,
As human love falls vainly on the heart
Of cold despair. Alone the minstrel slept
In his unbreathing rest. Upon the floor,
Beside him, lay the cherished laurel-wreath.
His only wealth, the guerdon of his toils,
The one dear boon for which, through weary years
Of bitter sorrows, he had patiently
Struggled and suffered, pouring forth his wild,
Deep soul of music, while keen agony
Was tearing his great heart. There, there it lay
All pale and withering, like the throbless brow
Whence it had fallen.
The parted vines that bloomed and clustered o'er
The window of an humble cottage home,
And fell upon the white brow of the dead,
As human love falls vainly on the heart
Of cold despair. Alone the minstrel slept
In his unbreathing rest. Upon the floor,
Beside him, lay the cherished laurel-wreath.
His only wealth, the guerdon of his toils,
The one dear boon for which, through weary years
Of bitter sorrows, he had patiently
Struggled and suffered, pouring forth his wild,
Deep soul of music, while keen agony
Was tearing his great heart. There, there it lay
All pale and withering, like the throbless brow
Whence it had fallen.
There, beside him too,
Broken and silent lay his barbiton,
His own familiar, in whose spirit tones
His spirit e'er had found in joy and grief
Broken and silent lay his barbiton,
His own familiar, in whose spirit tones
His spirit e'er had found in joy and grief
