TO A FRIEND,
        ON BEING ASKED FOR SOME VERSES.
 
        I thought the Soul of Song had made
            This heart of mine her sepulchre;
        For all her golden dreams had fled,
            And I could win no note from her.
 
        But when for thee thou bid'st her sing,
            That spell dissolves her icy chain;
        She slowly plumes her drooping wing,
            And strikes her shattered chords again.
 
        For more than lifeless would she be,
            If thou shouldst bid her wake in vain;
        And lost her chords, if still for thee
            She could not wake one living strain.
 
        For thee -- that hours of deep distress,
            And days of gloom with kindness lit,
        Till half I blessed the bitterness
            That gave me thee to sweeten it.
 
        For thee -- that when, despairing long,
            I said, "No friend has earth for me,"
        Didst bid the tones die on my tongue,
            And I could utter, "only thee."
 
        For thee -- that when my mother earth
            Shall call me to her sheltering breast,
        Of all I know wilt weep alone
            Above my nameless place of rest.
 
        But see! her wings refuse to fly;
            Her chords are harsh from silence long;
        Alas! thy gentle sorcery
            Hath summoned but the ghost of Song.
 
        She hovers o'er her living tomb,
            She seeks once more her grave and chain,
        As spectres haunt the midnight gloom:
            Sweet friend, awake her not again.
 
        If o'er the wind harp's gentle strings
            The threatening tempest rudely flies,
        It does not wake more thrilling strains --
            The chords are rent, the music dies.
 
        Thus is my harp, thus is my song --
            I woo in vain its sweetness fled,
        The storms have swept the chords too long,
            The music of my soul is dead.