TO A LOST MELODY.

Ditties of no tone.

Keats.

Thou art not dead, O sweet lost melody,

Sung beyond memory,

When golden to the winds this world of ours

Waved wild with boundless flowers;

Sung in some past when wildernesses were,—

Not dead, not dead, lost air!

Yet in the ages long where lurkest thou,

And what soul knows thee now?

Wert thou not given to sweeten every wind

From that o’erburdened mind

That bore thee through the young world, and that tongue

By which thou first wert sung?

Was not thy holy choir the endless dome,

And nature all thy home?

Did not the warm gale clasp thee to his breast,

Lulling thy storms to rest?

55And is the June air laden with thee now,

Passing the summer-bough?

And is the dawn-wind on a lonely sea

Balmy with thoughts of thee?

To rock on daybreak winds dost thou rejoice,

As first on his strong voice

Whose radiant morning soul did give thee birth,

Gave thee to heaven and earth?

Or did each bird win one dear note of thee

To pipe eternally?

Art thou the secret of the small field-flowers

Nodding thy time for hours,

—Blown by the happy winds from hill to hill,

And such a secret still?

Or wert thou rapt awhile to other spheres

To gladden tenderer ears?

Doth music’s soul contain thee, precious air,

Sleepest thou clasped there,

Until a time shall come for thee to start

Into some unborn heart?

Then wilt thou as the clouds of ages roll,

Thou migratory soul,

56Amid a different wilder wilderness

—In crowds that throng and press,

Revive thy blessed cadences forgotten

In some soul new-begotten?

Oh, wilt thou ever tire of thy long rest

On nature’s silent breast?

And wilt thou leave thy rainbow showers, to bear

A part in human care?

—Forsake thy boundless silence to make choice

Of some pathetic voice?

—Forsake thy stars, thy suns, thy moons, thy skies,

For man’s desiring sighs?

Ah, not for mine, who sit with empty ears,

Dreaming of thee, to tears.

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