The Silent Melody

"Bring me my broken harp," he said;     "We both are wrecks, - but as ye will, -     Though all its ringing tones have fled,     Their echoes linger round it still;     It had some golden strings, I know,     But that was long - how long! - ago.     "I cannot see its tarnished gold,     I cannot hear its vanished tone,     Scarce can my trembling fingers hold     The pillared frame so long their own;     We both are wrecks, - a while ago     It had some silver strings, I know,     "But on them Time too long has played     The solemn strain that knows no change,     And where of old my fingers strayed     The chords they find are new and strange, -     Yes! iron strings, - I know, - I know, -     We both are wrecks of long ago.     "We both are wrecks, - a shattered pair, -     Strange to ourselves in time's disguise.     What say ye to the lovesick air     That brought the tears from Marian's eyes?     Ay! trust me, - under breasts of snow     Hearts could be melted long ago!     "Or will ye hear the storm-song's crash     That from his dreams the soldier woke,     And bade him face the lightning flash     When battle's cloud in thunder broke? . . .     Wrecks, - nought but wrecks! - the time was when     We two were worth a thousand men!"     And so the broken harp they bring     With pitying smiles that none could blame;     Alas! there's not a single string     Of all that filled the tarnished frame!     But see! like children overjoyed,     His fingers rambling through the void!     "I clasp thee! Ay . . . mine ancient lyre . . .     Nay, guide my wandering fingers. . . There     They love to dally with the wire     As Isaac played with Esau's hair.     Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune     That Marian called the Breath of June!"     And so they softly gather round     Rapt in his tuneful trance he seems     His fingers move: but not a sound!     A silence like the song of dreams. . . .     "There! ye have heard the air," he cries,     "That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!"     Ah, smile not at his fond conceit,     Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain;     To him the unreal sounds are sweet, -     No discord mars the silent strain     Scored on life's latest, starlit page -     The voiceless melody of age.     Sweet are the lips, of all that sing,     When Nature's music breathes unsought,     But never yet could voice or string     So truly shape our tenderest thought     As when by life's decaying fire     Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre!