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IRISH MELODIES. 123 |
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SHE SUNG OF LOVE.
She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed with their soft fire
The soul within that trembling shell. The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
And play'd around those lips that sung And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,
If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.
But soon the West no longer burn'd,
Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew; And when to gaze again I turn'd,
The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. As if her light and heaven's were one,
The glory all had left that frame; And from her glimmering lips the tone,
As from a parting spirit, came. *
Who ever lov'd, but had the thought That he and all he lov'd must part ?
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught The fading image to my heart—
* The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr. Rogers's Poem of Human Life, beginning —
" Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows Less and less earthly."
I would quote the entire passage, but that I fear to put my own humble imitation of it out of countenance. |
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