The Old Guitar

Neglected now is the old guitar      And moldering into decay;     Fretted with many a rift and scar      That the dull dust hides away,     While the spider spins a silver star      In its silent lips to-day.     The keys hold only nerveless strings -      The sinews of brave old airs     Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings      So closely here declares     A sad regret in its ravelings      And the faded hue it wears.     But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,      Has cherished a smile for me;     And its features hint of a fairer face      That comes with a memory     Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place      And a moonlit balcony.     Music sweeter than words confess      Or the minstrel's powers invent,     Thrilled here once at the light caress      Of the fairy hands that lent     This excuse for the kiss I press      On the dear old instrument.     The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem      Still blooms; and the tiny sets     In the circle all are here; the gem      In the keys, and the silver frets;     But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them -      Alas for the heart's regrets! -     Alas for the loosened strings to-day,      And the wounds of rift and scar     On a worn old heart, with its roundelay      Enthralled with a stronger bar     That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay      Like that of the old guitar!