The harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom to-night, For the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright; But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart A sorrow to one in an alien clime, Let the light of the melody fall on the heart, And cadence his grief into musical rhyme. The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim That once were his passionate love and his pride; And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him Have fallen away as the flowers have died. The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago, Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath The grass and the stubble -- the frost and the snow. Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear, And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings, And jewel the song with the gem of a tear. For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone As sad as the song in his bosom tonight, And the magical touch of his fingers alone Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FOR [OR TO] THOSE WHO FAIL by CINCINNATUS HEINE MILLER PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 37. AL-HALI by EDWIN ARNOLD IDEOGRAM by ALFRED GOLDSWORTHY BAILEY TO THE LARK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE END OF THE SUNSET TRAIL by ALMA C. BINGHAM |