154
THE BROKEN HARP.
Then would I weave a burning thrill In every touch I gave my lyre.But now around its broken strings There linger only notes of woe;My hand no longer from it brings The music of the long ago.
I once at pleasure's altar knelt— Yes, knelt, and drank its richest wine;For then my heart had never felt The shadow of a darker shrine.I ne'er had known the maddening power Of love; my soul was then at rest;My heart was like a budding flower That nursed a sunbeam in its breast,But now—alas! that clouds should rise, Should darken-o'er so fair a sky,Should fill a gladsome heart with sighs, That once knew naught of tear or sigh.
I loved! there knelt before my shrine A being I was proud to win,Whose brow wore every seal divine— The stamp of virtue shrined within.
