THE LUTE WITH THE BROKEN STRING.
I took the lute I had prized so much
In my day of pride, in my day of power,
And wiped the dust with a tender touch,
And wreathed it gaily with ribbon and flower.
And the tears from my heart were falling fast
For the bloom that had faded, the fragrance fled,
As I thought of the hand that had wreathed it last—
The hand of my darling now cold and dead:
And I put it aside with a passionate fling,
And something was broken—a heart or a string.
And again I essayed, when the tears had dried
And the tumult of sobs in my bosom was still,
To touch it once more with the olden pride,
That the hearts that yet love me might hear it and thrill:
But a soft low note, with its melting power,
A tone of deep pathos, had trembled and gone;
And my hopes died out in that silent hour,
And left me in darkness and sorrow alone.
What wonder, beloved, that I cannot sing
A song of the heart with a broken string?
What worth is the lute when its music hath fled?
What worth is the strain when its alto is lost?
What worth is the heart with its tenderness shed,
And all its warm feelings laid waste by the frost?
But love cannot die. There is comfort in this,
That Love is eternal, though passion controls.
And what, then, is heaven, with its glory and bliss,
But the union of hearts and communion of souls—
When saints shall be minstrels, and angels shall sing,
And lutes shall have never a broken string?