Part 6 — LINES TO A JEWS-HARP.

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BY L. B. M.

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Wee burlesque on the minstrel’s line!

Unsung by bard in lay divine,

Unconsecrate to fane or shrine.

In theme most lowly;

Thou tiny, uncouth, jingling thing!

Scarce big enough for Elfin king,

Thou joy of childhood’s sunny spring,

And treasure holy.

How oft, in sooth, I’ve wonder’d who

He could have been, that famous Jew

Who gave thee birth and name, and threw

No doubt around thee,

Of the soul’s wealth, all that he had,

And then, perchance, went music-mad,

And died at last of joy; so glad

That he had found thee.

Was he some Smithy, grim and old,

Whose anvil iron changed to gold,

And, forging thee, turned he to mould,

O’erpowered with glory?

Alas! such fate doth quick befall

Spirits too ripe for earthly thrall;

Fame, of her children, great and small,

Tells oft such story.

Or was he one in youth’s glad prime,

When Hope trips arm in arm with time,

Who hit upon thy frame sublime,

And when he placed thee

First to his lips, with urchin pride,

And heard thy tinkling murmurs glide,

“Eureka!” in his spirit cried,

Is’t true I’ve traced thee?

Then thanks from all his countless tribe

(Henceforth their joy to him ascribe,)

When in their pockets sly they bribe,

’Neath school-dame’s glances,

With bits of string, wi’ top, and ball,

Thy cannie self, thou Harp so small,

Watching the sun creep on the wall,

Till noon advances.

Ah! relic of that guileless day!

As now I list thy humble lay

Beneath my windows, far away

In thought I’m winging;

And, lo! I see a brighter land,

I meet the clasp of many a hand,

And seem to listen as I stand,

To voices singing.

And, oh! thou gleesome harper, still

Thy little strain my heart must fill,

When thou, o’er mead and distant hill,

Art gayly hieing,

Oh! that its note had power to fling

Far from the soul its sorrowing,

And wake it to a second spring,

Nor leave it sighing.