* * * * * * *
And where will you find a more pathetic picture than that of the old musician in The Silent Melody?
Bring me my broken harp, he said;
We both are wrecks—but as ye will—
Though all its ringing tones have fled,
Their echoes linger round it still;
It had some golden strings, I know,
But that was long—how long!—ago.
I cannot see its tarnished gold;
I cannot hear its vanished tone;
Scarce can my trembling fingers hold
The pillared frame so long their own;
We both are wrecks—a while ago
It had some silver strings, I know.
But on them Time too long has played
The solemn strain that knows no change,
And where of old my fingers strayed
The chords they find are new and strange—
Yes; iron strings—I know—I know—
We both are wrecks of long ago.
With pitying smiles the broken harp is brought to him. Not a single string remains.
But see! like children overjoyed,
His fingers rambling through the void!
They gather softly around the old musician.
Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems;
His fingers move; but not a sound!
A silence like the song of dreams....
"There! ye have heard the air," he cries,
"That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!"
The poem closes with these fine stanzas: