"Of all the sweet days we have known, my friend,"
He said half sadly, "This will be the end.
I grieve to go,
Loving, as I shall never love again;
It rends my heart-strings, and it gives me pain,
But well I know
"I could not make you happy with my love,
You, tender hearted, gentle as a dove,
And I--oh, well!
I cannot grovel on in this dull life.
How my soul yearns for scenes of noise and strife
No tongue can tell.
"And so I give you back the pledge you gave,
I should but drag you to an early grave
With my unrest.
You are unfettered; but here at your feet
I leave my heart; oh, may you be, my sweet,
Forever blest."
She drew from off her hand the hoop of gold
(Dearer to her by far than wealth untold)
And gave to him,
And as she, slow and silent, moved away,
Her life like all that Western sky grew gray
And bleak and grim.
He walks to-day, with kings upon the earth;
He dwells in scenes of revelry and mirth,
With naught of care.
And she--the sun that set for her in deepest gloom,
And never rose, will rise beyond the tomb
And meet her there.
[THE MUSICIANS.]
The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
And I laughed, when the music fell on my ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not hear
The wailing and moaning of souls a-weary--
The strains of sorrow that floated around,
For my heart's notes rang loud and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
Played louder and louder in joyful glee;
But sometimes a discord was heard by others--
Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder, and faster and faster
The hands of the brothers played strain on strain,
When all of a sudden, a Mighty Master
Swept them aside; and Pain,
Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;
Each note was an echo of awful anguish,
As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow,
And my soul for a season seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of woe.
With skillful hands, that were never weary,
This Master of Music played strain on strain,
And between the bars of the miserere,
He drew up the strings of my heart again,
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
To see that they did not snap in two.
"They are drawn so tight they will break asunder,"
I thought, but instead, they grew.