Poems (Campbell)/Ianthe to her Harp
IANTHE TO HER HARP.
Come, gentle Harp, sweet soother of my woes!
And in some sadly pleasing strain
Teach Ianthe to complain;
While at each melancholy close
Dove-ey'd pity hov'ring near,
On each cheek a pearly tear,
Droops her snowy plumes and sighs;—
And responsive to the sound
From hollow rock, or cave around,
Echo, sportive nymph, replies.
And in some sadly pleasing strain
Teach Ianthe to complain;
While at each melancholy close
Dove-ey'd pity hov'ring near,
On each cheek a pearly tear,
Droops her snowy plumes and sighs;—
And responsive to the sound
From hollow rock, or cave around,
Echo, sportive nymph, replies.
Soft-ton'd Harp! Ianthe's treasure,
Slower yet thy solemn measure—
In more lengthen'd notes of woe,
Teach the numbers how to flow,
Mournful as the moaning wind,
Gentle as the rippling stream,
Softly blowing,
Smoothly flowing,
Waking the fairy visions of the mind,
And lulling to romantic dream—
Till the music of thy notes,
Stealing o'er the gurgling rill,
Far on ether's bosom floats,
Till thy murmurs gently flowing,
Wake the echoes of the hill.
Heav'nly sounds! sweet peace bestowing,
Bid each raging grief be still—
Sing such sadder lays as ne'er
Stole upon the slumb'ring ear
Of the azure mantled night;
While the Moon in cloudless glory,
Throws around her silver light,
List'ning to the plaintive story
From her starry mansion bright.
Sweet Echo, in thy deep domain,
Each sadly swelling note detain,
And when Ianthe's hand is cold,
And when her voice is still and mute,
And when her griefs no more are told
To warbling harp, or breathing lute,
Sound again thy silver shell,
Solemn silence sweetly breaking,
By rushy stream and tangled dell,
All thy sister echoes waking,
Till ev'ry nymph of ev'ry brook,
Rising from the limpid waves,
Through their shadowy tresses look,
And tiny fairies quit their mountain-caves.
Slower yet thy solemn measure—
In more lengthen'd notes of woe,
Teach the numbers how to flow,
Mournful as the moaning wind,
Gentle as the rippling stream,
Softly blowing,
Smoothly flowing,
Waking the fairy visions of the mind,
And lulling to romantic dream—
Till the music of thy notes,
Stealing o'er the gurgling rill,
Far on ether's bosom floats,
Till thy murmurs gently flowing,
Wake the echoes of the hill.
Heav'nly sounds! sweet peace bestowing,
Bid each raging grief be still—
Sing such sadder lays as ne'er
Stole upon the slumb'ring ear
Of the azure mantled night;
While the Moon in cloudless glory,
Throws around her silver light,
List'ning to the plaintive story
From her starry mansion bright.
Sweet Echo, in thy deep domain,
Each sadly swelling note detain,
And when Ianthe's hand is cold,
And when her voice is still and mute,
And when her griefs no more are told
To warbling harp, or breathing lute,
Sound again thy silver shell,
Solemn silence sweetly breaking,
By rushy stream and tangled dell,
All thy sister echoes waking,
Till ev'ry nymph of ev'ry brook,
Rising from the limpid waves,
Through their shadowy tresses look,
And tiny fairies quit their mountain-caves.
And if Ianthe's Harp, unstrung,
Should 'mid these tuneless bow'rs be hung,
Wilt thou revive the mournful strain,
And wake its trembling notes again?
Ah! no, this grotto would be still,
And mute the valley, mute the hill,
Forgotten all the tender theme
Of Edwin's love, of Edwin's fame—
But, why, alas! complain of thee?
Though on the bark of ev'ry tree
This hand has 'grav'd my lover's name,
The faithless trunk will soon decay,
And ev'ry vestage wear away,
E'en as the shadowy tints that deck life's morning dream!
Should 'mid these tuneless bow'rs be hung,
Wilt thou revive the mournful strain,
And wake its trembling notes again?
Ah! no, this grotto would be still,
And mute the valley, mute the hill,
Forgotten all the tender theme
Of Edwin's love, of Edwin's fame—
But, why, alas! complain of thee?
Though on the bark of ev'ry tree
This hand has 'grav'd my lover's name,
The faithless trunk will soon decay,
And ev'ry vestage wear away,
E'en as the shadowy tints that deck life's morning dream!
Fond cares upon my earlier years,
A father's anxious heart bestow'd;
With all a parent's hopes and fears,
His kind paternal bosom glow'd.
But, ah! too soon Sir Edwin came,
Blooming in manly youth and grace,
The gentlest of his noble name,
The bravest of his warlike race.
We met; and from that fated hour
In either heart love glow'd divine;
My Edwin sigh'd beneath its pow'r,
And more than mutual pangs were mine.
A father's anxious heart bestow'd;
With all a parent's hopes and fears,
His kind paternal bosom glow'd.
But, ah! too soon Sir Edwin came,
Blooming in manly youth and grace,
The gentlest of his noble name,
The bravest of his warlike race.
We met; and from that fated hour
In either heart love glow'd divine;
My Edwin sigh'd beneath its pow'r,
And more than mutual pangs were mine.
How oft enraptur'd on thy strains,
Oh, soft-ton'd Harp! has Edwin hung;
And oft of parted lovers' pains,
In boding accents sweetly sung;
And when my ready starting tear
Stream'd at the mournful story,
Quick would he change the tale of fear,
And sing the dazzling charms of glory,
While ev'ry eager look express'd;
The martial fires that warm'd his breast.
Oh, soft-ton'd Harp! has Edwin hung;
And oft of parted lovers' pains,
In boding accents sweetly sung;
And when my ready starting tear
Stream'd at the mournful story,
Quick would he change the tale of fear,
And sing the dazzling charms of glory,
While ev'ry eager look express'd;
The martial fires that warm'd his breast.
My father saw—a parent's curse
Destroy'd the hopes we dar'd to nurse,
Forbad the love our bosoms felt,
Nor pray'rs could move, nor tears could melt;
With threat'ning fury undisguis'd
He chid the foul disgrace,
For, oh! my haughty sire despis'd
Young Edwin and his race:
Long had each house with hatred burn'd,
Long at each proffer'd union spurn'd,
And cherish'd so their jealous fears,
That malice grew with coming years.
Too soon, alas! our hapless fate,
A deadlier feud supplies,
Confirms their unrelenting fate,
And our's the sacrifice!
Destroy'd the hopes we dar'd to nurse,
Forbad the love our bosoms felt,
Nor pray'rs could move, nor tears could melt;
With threat'ning fury undisguis'd
He chid the foul disgrace,
For, oh! my haughty sire despis'd
Young Edwin and his race:
Long had each house with hatred burn'd,
Long at each proffer'd union spurn'd,
And cherish'd so their jealous fears,
That malice grew with coming years.
Too soon, alas! our hapless fate,
A deadlier feud supplies,
Confirms their unrelenting fate,
And our's the sacrifice!
They tore me from my mother's breast,
They tore me from that sacred home
Where all my childish days were blest,
And dragg'd me to yon cloister's gloom.
Oh! thou, who bear'st a father's name,
To whose dear arms so oft I've sprung,
When from the battle-field you came,
And round your neck delighted hung—
How could thy lips pronounce my doom,
And force me to this living tomb!
They tore me from that sacred home
Where all my childish days were blest,
And dragg'd me to yon cloister's gloom.
Oh! thou, who bear'st a father's name,
To whose dear arms so oft I've sprung,
When from the battle-field you came,
And round your neck delighted hung—
How could thy lips pronounce my doom,
And force me to this living tomb!
My Edwin's frantic last adieu
Still hangs upon mine ear;
Still on his manly cheek I view
The agonizing tear.
"Ianthe, ev'ry hope adieu!
For hope and pleasure die with you:
I go to share the battle's toil,
To mingle in its thickest broil;
Assur'd I never shall return
Thy loss in ling'ring grief to mourn!
Oh! when amid the war-strife driv'n
The welcome wound at length is giv'n
That sets my spirit free;—
The last faint pray'r I breathe to Heav'n
Shall fondly whisper thee!"
Still hangs upon mine ear;
Still on his manly cheek I view
The agonizing tear.
"Ianthe, ev'ry hope adieu!
For hope and pleasure die with you:
I go to share the battle's toil,
To mingle in its thickest broil;
Assur'd I never shall return
Thy loss in ling'ring grief to mourn!
Oh! when amid the war-strife driv'n
The welcome wound at length is giv'n
That sets my spirit free;—
The last faint pray'r I breathe to Heav'n
Shall fondly whisper thee!"
Adieu! my brave, my gallant knight!
Thy sun hath set in early night—
In Palestine's unhallow'd ground,
Deform'd with many a ghastly wound,
Thy mould'ring limbs are laid;
Nor can Ianthe's footsteps tread
Thy place of rest among the dead,
To sing sweet requiems to thy parted shade.
Thy sun hath set in early night—
In Palestine's unhallow'd ground,
Deform'd with many a ghastly wound,
Thy mould'ring limbs are laid;
Nor can Ianthe's footsteps tread
Thy place of rest among the dead,
To sing sweet requiems to thy parted shade.
"And now the storm of grief is o'er,
Yet melancholy's dewy eye"
Still sheds its slow and silent show'r,
And still I heave the ceaseless sigh;
And oft to this sequester'd spot
At midnight's solemn hour I steal,
To teach the echoes of the grot
My tales of sorrow to reveal;
And muse on joys that ne'er return.—
But Echo will forget to mourn;
And soon Ianthe's Harp unstrung,
Tuneless shall 'mid these bow'rs be hung.
Yet melancholy's dewy eye"
Still sheds its slow and silent show'r,
And still I heave the ceaseless sigh;
And oft to this sequester'd spot
At midnight's solemn hour I steal,
To teach the echoes of the grot
My tales of sorrow to reveal;
And muse on joys that ne'er return.—
But Echo will forget to mourn;
And soon Ianthe's Harp unstrung,
Tuneless shall 'mid these bow'rs be hung.
But, hark! I hear the matin bell
Summon the holy train to pray'rs;—
Immers'd in yonder gloomy cell,
My thoughts, my heart, no more must dwell
On wordly griefs, on worldly cares:
Nor e'er the name of him I love
Mix in my pray'rs to Heav'n above.
Melodious lyre! and must we part?
Sweet solace of my hours of pain!
'Tis conscience whispers to my heart,
And. bids me cease the mournful strain.
The sacred veil that round me flows,
Reminds me of my solemn vow;
Nor must my heart indulge in woes,
My tongue not dares to utter now.
Deep, deep, within that constant heart
My Edwin's image lies,
Nor from my struggling soul shall part,
In death's last agonies.
But, ah! his dear forbidden name
No more must tremble on my tongue;
Nor grief like our's, and melancholy tale,
Again by vestal lips be sung.
Summon the holy train to pray'rs;—
Immers'd in yonder gloomy cell,
My thoughts, my heart, no more must dwell
On wordly griefs, on worldly cares:
Nor e'er the name of him I love
Mix in my pray'rs to Heav'n above.
Melodious lyre! and must we part?
Sweet solace of my hours of pain!
'Tis conscience whispers to my heart,
And. bids me cease the mournful strain.
The sacred veil that round me flows,
Reminds me of my solemn vow;
Nor must my heart indulge in woes,
My tongue not dares to utter now.
Deep, deep, within that constant heart
My Edwin's image lies,
Nor from my struggling soul shall part,
In death's last agonies.
But, ah! his dear forbidden name
No more must tremble on my tongue;
Nor grief like our's, and melancholy tale,
Again by vestal lips be sung.
Soft-ton'd Harp! Ianthe's treasure,
Farewell to thy dulcet measure!
Though soft and slow
Thy numbers flow,
Ne'er again must sorrow's child
Listen to thy music wild;
Ah! never, never!
But take my last, long, ling'ring view;—
And now thy trembling notes are still,
And hush'd the echoes of the hill;—
Again, sweet Harp! again adieu!
Farewell, for ever!
Farewell to thy dulcet measure!
Though soft and slow
Thy numbers flow,
Ne'er again must sorrow's child
Listen to thy music wild;
Ah! never, never!
But take my last, long, ling'ring view;—
And now thy trembling notes are still,
And hush'd the echoes of the hill;—
Again, sweet Harp! again adieu!
Farewell, for ever!