THE IMPROVISATRICE.
Reading edition
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BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.
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Go bear the voiceless harp away!
Its latest note is spoken,
And like the heart that beats within,
Its last frail chord is broken.
This soul of mine was never made
For glad or peaceful life,
But cast in rude, imperfect mould,
For bitterness and strife.
I never was a careless child,
For in my early years
The founts within were gathering,
Of anguish and of tears:
And when I looked upon the stars
In all their golden sheen,
The presage of a broken heart—
It always came between.
And then the Voice of Song awoke
Within my wayward soul,
And bade the wearing tide of thought
Forever o’er it roll.
And dreams of words that should go forth
To bless and elevate,
Ambition’s charmed and serpent lure,
The passion to create;
Were mingled in my spirit’s depths,
Till with displacing power
Came Love with gorgeous diadem,
The phantom of an hour!
And soon the mockeries of Hope
Fled smiling from my breast,
And left a dark and fearful curse,
The cravings of unrest.
And Life became a weary load,
And Nature’s face a pall,
And each red drop that passed my heart
Was turned to seething gall.
From day to day the lyre within
Waxed passionate and frail;
It trembled at the zephyr’s breath,
How could it brook the gale?
Now Death has o’er my pillow bent,
I’ve seen his glancing eye,
And watched the silvery gleaming of
His pinion passing by.
Go bring me back my harp again!
I feel a strength for prayer,
And o’er the shattered chords within
Creeps an unearthly air.
Go bring me back my harp again,
I may not now restore
The sounding strings I loved so well,
Or tune it as before;
But I would lay my hand upon
The trembling chords and riven;
I feel mine own are healing fast
Beneath the eye of Heaven.