Poems (Griffith)/Broken Barbiton—Withered Laurel-Wreath and Broken Heart
Broken Barbiton—Withered Laurel-Wreath and Broken Heart.
A SCENE FROM BULWER'S ZANONI.
IT was the close of day upon the shores Of beauteous Naples. The low murmuring waves That-rose and fell upon the "Siren's sea," Gleamed like pale rubies in the sunset glow; The dim isles, veiled in mists of silver, rose Far through the dim and shadowy atmosphere; The pale, sweet stars shone calm and beautiful In the blue diadem of night, and shapes Of loveliness and beauty seemed to steal Forth from the soft and deepening shades, as Love, And star-eyed Hope, and pensive Memory Steal from the twilight of the heart. Afar, Like a huge column moving in the heavens, Soared the gray smoke of old Vesuvius, From its broad base of lurid flame; the shaft Of Maro's tomb above the beetling cliff Was drawn against the deep blue sky, and soft The scattered gardens of the Caprea shone: Like "wrecks of Paradise." No human voice Broke the deep spell of silence and repose, That rested like a calm, mysterious dream Upon the landscape, yet the air still seemed All musical, and strangely eloquent With the hushed cadences and passion-sighsOf deep and burning love.
Ah! 'mid this scene Of loveliness and deep serenity: The traces of despair, and woe, and death Were darkly visible. The twilight's last Sweet, rosy smile of gentleness and love 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.
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 A faithful echo. It had been his friend, True and unfailing, 'mid the darkened wrecks Of human friendships. It had been his love, His child, his life, and his religion. Had talked to it at twilight's wizard hour, The hour that now closed over it and him, And it had answered him in tones of more Than earthly sympathy. And he had won, With its dear aid, the wreath so fondly deemed The emblem of fame's immortality. But now the dust was on its loosened chords, That, like his own dark tresses, swept the floor, To sound no more, save when perchance the wind,Straying at nightfall through that ruined cot, Should gently stir them with its breath of sighs, To one low wail, one melancholy moan,For him who so had loved them.
'Twas a scene To move the heart to tears. The world around, The air, the earth, the sky, the ocean, seemed Flooded with beauty; every isle that gleamed In the deep sea, and every sweet star isle That glittered in the blue sky, seemed a bright Calypso of the heart, yet in that lone And silent cottage home, the minstrel pale—The wreath that he had purchased with the cries, The wild shrieks of his spirit—and the lyre, The sole companion of his life of toil, His heart's dear idol—mouldered side by side, Unheeded by the careless race of men.
Louisville, February, 1852.