Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Broken Lute
THE BROKEN LUTE.
When the Lamp is shatter'd,
The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scatter'd,
The Rainbow's glory is shed.
When the Lute is broken,
Sweet sounds are remember'd not;
When the words are spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the Lamp and Lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the Spirit is mute.
Shelley.
She dwelt in proud Venetian halls,
'Midst forms that breathed from the pictured walls;
But a glow of beauty like her own,
There had no dream of the painter thrown.
Lit from within was her noble brow,
As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow;
Her young, clear cheek, had a changeful hue,
As if ye might see how the soul wrought through;
And every flash of her fervent eye
Seem'd the bright wakening of Poesy.
Even thus it was!—from her childhood's years,—
A being of sudden smiles and tears,—
Passionate visions, quick light and shade,—
Such was that high-born Italian maid!
And the spirit of song in her bosom-cell,
Dwelt, as the odours in violets dwell,—
Or as the sounds in the Eolian strings,—
Or in aspen-leaves the quiverings;
There, ever there, with the life enshrined,
Waiting the call of the faintest wind.
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian sea,
In the city's hour of moonlight glee,—
Oft would that gift of the southern sky,
O'erflow from her lips in melody;—
Oft amid festal halls it came,
Like the springing forth of a sudden flame—
Till the dance was hush'd, and the silvery tone
Of her Inspiration, was heard alone.
And Fame went with her, the bright, the crown'd,
And Music floated her steps around;
And every lay of her soul was borne
Through the sunny land, as on wings of morn.
And was the daughter of Venice blest,
With a power so deep in her youthful breast?
Could She be happy, o'er whose dark eye
So many changes and dreams went by?
And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought
As if but born from the rush of thought?
—Yes! in the brightness of joy awhile
She moved, as a bark in the sunbeam's smile;
For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord,
All, all on a happy love was pour'd!
How loves a heart, whence the stream of song
Flows like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong?
How loves a heart, which hath never proved
One breath of the world?—Even so she loved!
Blest, though the Lord of her soul afar,
Was charging the foremost in Moslem war,—
Bearing the flag of St Mark's on high,
As a ruling star in the Grecian sky.
Proud music breathed in her song, when Fame
Gave a tone more thrilling to his name;
And her trust in his love was a woman's faith—
Perfect, and fearing no change but death.
But the fields are won from the Othman host,
In the land that quell'd the Persian's boast,
And a thousand hearts in Venice burn,
For the day of triumph and return!
—The day is come! the flashing deep
Foams where the galleys of Victory sweep;
And the sceptred City of the wave,
With her festal splendour greets the brave;
Cymbal and clarion, and voice, around,
Make the air one stream of exulting sound,
While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles,
Look from each hall of the hundred isles.
But happiest and brightest that day of all,
Robed for her warrior's festival,
Moving a Queen 'midst the radiant throng,
Was She, th' inspired one, the Maid of Song!
The lute he loved on her arm she bore,
As she rush'd in her joy to the crowded shore;
With a hue on her cheek like the damask glow
By the sunset given unto mountain snow,
And her eye all fill'd with the spirit's play,
Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day,
And her long hair waving in ringlets bright—
So came that being of Hope and Light!
—One moment, Erminia! one moment more,
And life, all the beauty of life, is o'er!
The bark of her lover hath touched the strand—
Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand?
—A young fair form, whose nymph-like grace
Accorded well with the Grecian face,
And the eye, in its clear soft darkness meek,
And the lashes that droop'd o'er a pale rose cheek;
And he look'd on that beauty with tender pride—
The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride!
But how stood She, the Forsaken, there,
Struck by the lightning of swift despair?
Still, as amazed with grief, she stood,
And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood,
And there came from her quivering lip no word—
Only the fall of her lute was heard,
As it dropt from her hand at her rival's feet,
Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet!
What more remaineth? her day was done;
Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one!
The light, the vision, the gift of power,
Pass'd from her soul in that mortal hour,
Like the rich sound from the shatter'd string,
Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring!
As an eagle struck in his upward flight,
So was her hope from its radiant height,
And her song went with it for evermore,
A gladness taken from sea and shore!
She had moved to the echoing sound of fame—
Silently, silently, died her name!
Silently melted her life away,
As ye have seen a young flower decay,
Or a lamp that hath swiftly burn'd, expire,
Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fire,
Leaving its channel all dry and mute—
Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute!