If thou wouldst have me sing and play,
As once I played and sung,
First take this time-worn lute away,
And bring one freshly strung.
Call back the time when pleasure's sigh
First breathed among the strings;
And Time himself, in flitting by.
Made music with his wings.
But how is this? tho' new the lute,
And shining fresh the chords,
Beneath this hand they slumber mute,
Or speak but dreamy words.
In vain I seek the soul that dwelt
Within that once sweet shell,
Which told so warmly what it felt,
And felt what naught could tell.
Oh, ask not then for passion's lay,
From lyre so coldly strung;
With this I ne'er can sing or play,
As once I played and sung.
No, bring that long-loved lute again,—
Tho' chilled by years it be,
If thou wilt call the slumbering strain,
'Twill wake again for thee.
Tho' time have frozen the tuneful stream
Of thoughts that gushed along,
One look from thee, like summer's beam,
Will thaw them into song.
Then give, oh give, that wakening ray,
And once more blithe and young,
Thy bard again will sing and play,
As once he played and sung.
STILL WHEN DAYLIGHT.
Still when daylight o'er the wave
Bright and soft its farewell gave,
I used to hear, while light was falling,
O'er the wave a sweet voice calling,
Mournfully at distance calling.
Ah! once how blest that maid would come,
To meet her sea-boy hastening home;
And thro' the night those sounds repeating,
Hail his bark with joyous greeting,
Joyously his light bark greeting.
But, one sad night, when winds were high,
Nor earth, nor heaven could hear her cry.
She saw his boat come tossing over
Midnight's wave,—but not her lover!
No, never more her lover.
And still that sad dream loath to leave,
She comes with wandering mind at eve,
And oft we hear, when night is falling,
Faint her voice thro' twilight calling,
Mournfully at twilight calling.