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THE BROKEN LUTE 
 
 BY 
 
 FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS, 
 
 ARRANGED i:V 
 
 M. ELIZABETH WRIGHT. 
 
 BOSTON : 
 PRESS OF STANLEY & USHER, 
 
 171 Devonshire Street. 
 1888. 
 
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 Copyright, 1888, 
 By M. Elizai!Eth Wright, 
 
As music and splendor 
 
 Sun-ive not the lamp and lute, 
 The heart's echoes render 
 
 No song when the spirit is mute. — Shelley. 
 
She dwelt in proud Venetian halls, 
 
 'Midst forms that breathed from pictured walls ; 
 
 But a glow of beauty like her own, 
 
 There had no dream of the painter thrown ; 
 
 Lie from within was her noble brow. 
 
 As an urn, whence rays from a lamp may flow; 
 
 Her young, clear cheek had a changeful hue, 
 
 As if ye might see how the soul wrought through, 
 
 xA-nd every flash of her fervent eye 
 
 Seemed the bright awakening of poesy. 
 
Even thus it was ! from her childhood's years 
 A being of sudden smiles and tears — 
 Passionate visions, quick light and shade — 
 Such was that high-born Italian maid ! 
 And the spirit of song, in her bosom's cell 
 Dwelt, as the odors in violets dwell, 
 Or as the sounds in /Eolian strings, 
 Or m aspen leaves the quiverings ; 
 There, even there, with the life enshrined, 
 Waiting the call of the faintest wmd. 
 
Oft, on the wave of the Adrian Sea, 
 
 In the city's hour of moonhght glee, 
 
 Oft would that gift of the southern sky 
 
 O'erflow from her Hps in melody; 
 
 Oft amid festal halls it came, 
 
 Like the springing forth of a sudden flame — 
 
 Till the dance was hushed, and the silvery tone 
 
 Of her inspiration was heard alone. 
 
 And fame^ went with her, the bright, the crowned, 
 
 And music floated her steps around ; 
 
 And every lay of her soul was borne 
 
 Through the sunny land, as on wmgs of morn. 
 
And was the daughter of Venice blest, 
 
 With a power so deep in her youthful breast? 
 
 Could she be happy, o'er whose dark eye 
 
 So many changes and dreams went by. 
 
 And in whose cheek the swift crimson wrought 
 
 As if but born from the rush of thought? 
 
 Yes ! in the brightness of joy awhile 
 
 She moved as a bark in the sunbeam's smile; 
 
 For her spirit, as over her lyre's full chord, 
 
 All, all on a happy love was poured ! 
 
 How loves a heart whence the stream of song 
 
 Flows, like the life-blood, quick, bright, and strong? 
 
 How loves a heart which hath never proved 
 
 One breath of the world ? Even so she loved ; 
 
 Blessed, though the lord of her soul, afar, 
 
 Was charging the foremost in Moslem war. 
 
Bearing the flag of Saint Mark's on liigh, 
 
 As a ruling siar in the G^-ecian sky. 
 
 Proud music breathed in her song, when fame 
 
 Gave a tone more thrilling to his name ; 
 
 And her trust in his love was a woman's faith ■ 
 
 Perfect, and fearing no change but death. 
 
 But the fields are won from the Othman host, 
 In a land that quelled the Persian's boast, 
 And a thousand hearts in Venice burn 
 For the day of triumph and return ! 
 The day is come ! The flashing deep 
 Foams where the galleys of victory sweep ; 
 And the sceptred city of the wave 
 With her festal splendor greets the brave ; 
 
Cymbal, and clarion, and voice, around, 
 Make the air one stream of exulting sound; 
 While the beautiful, with their sunny smiles, 
 Look from each hall of the hundred isles. 
 But happiest and brightest that day of all, 
 Robed for her warrior's festival, 
 Moving a queen 'midst 'the radiant throng, 
 Was she, the inspired one, the maid of song. 
 The lute he loved on her arm she bore, 
 As she rushed in her joy to the crowded shore; 
 With a hue on her cheek like a damask glow 
 By sunset given unto mountain snow, 
 And her eye all filled with the spirit's play, 
 Like the flash of a gem to the changeful day. 
 And her long hair waving in ringlets bright — 
 So came that being of hope and light. 
 
One moment, Erminia ! one moment more, 
 
 And life, all the beauty of life, is o'er ! 
 
 The bark of her lover has touched the strand — 
 
 Whom leads he forth with a gentle hand? 
 
 A young, fair form, whose nymph-like grace 
 
 Accorded well with the Grecian face, 
 
 A id the eye, in its clear, soft darkness meek, 
 
 And the lashes that drooped o'er a pale rose cheek ; 
 
 And he looked on that beauty with tender pride — 
 
 The warrior hath brought back an Eastern bride ! 
 
But how stood she, the forsaken, there. 
 
 Struck by the lightni: g of swil't despair? 
 
 Still, as amazed with grief she stood, 
 
 And her cheek to her heart sent back the blood, 
 
 And there came from her quivering lip no word ; 
 
 Only the fall of the lute was heard, 
 
 As it dropped from her hand, at her rival's feet. 
 
 Into fragments, whose dying thrill was sweet 1 
 
What more remaineth ? Her day was done ; 
 
 Her fate and the Broken Lute's were one ! 
 
 The light, the vision, the gift of power, 
 
 Passed from her soul in that mortal hour, 
 
 Like the rich sound from the shattered string 
 
 Whence the gush of sweetness no more might spring ! 
 
 As an eagle struck in his upward flight, 
 
 So was her hope from its radiant height ; 
 
 And her song went with it, forevermore 
 
 A gladness taken from sea and shore ! 
 
 She had moved to the echoing sound of fame, 
 
 Silently, silently died her name ! 
 
 Silently melted her life away. 
 
 As ye have seen a young flower decay. 
 
 Or a lamp, that hath svvifdy burned, expire, 
 
 Or a bright stream shrink from the summer's fire. 
 
 Leaving its channel all dry and mute — 
 
 Woe for the Broken Heart and Lute. 
 
LIBRftRY OF CONGRESS 
 
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 014 457 354 7 ^ 
 
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