Harp of the Faerie whose strings hung
on the witch-elm frame that shades spring,
and into a blustery breeze notes flung,
till to thee a little note did cling,
muffling vibrant notes of every string-
O poet, your harp must it just now sleep?
Mid falling leaves and water murmuring,
still your words no sweeter sounds keep,
nor bid a frown, nor leave a maid to weep.
Not thus, from ancient days of Titania,
has your voice muted amid the glory crowd,
nor lay in hopeless love, or tournaments won,
but aroused a Childs joy and subdued the proud.
At each paused note, was heard instead aloud
your notes of symphony clear and on high.
Fellow poets and statesmen with attention bowed;
For still the Faeries knew of your burden
amid a knights galore and deed, and beauty's eye.
Now you awake us once more! With that note in hand
to pluck the strings of magic and not to stray;
O wake once more, your skill to all command
some lingering echo of thee in us earlier lay:
Though faint and feeble, and soon to die away,
and all unworthy of thee nobler self to strain,
yet if one note to pluck and linger, not sway,
the Faerie note would not be touched in vain,
then be silent no more, enchantment awake again.
Amid times running ceaseless recount, of yore,
we dance in infancy upon the Faerie poets knee,
and hear his marveling boyhood legends store
their joyous ventures on both land and sea,
the Faerie Poet hid not these things that be!
How can we be but strengthened by a spirit force,
which awaited us on the verge of dark eternity,
like a ship wreck, and the tide returning hoarse,
to keep us out of the wrecks sight and stay on course. |
