The Arkansas Advocate

The harp of old spoke not at night;
And like it mutely long
My hopes had slept—and though the light
That woke them into song.
Like a sweet air, thy spirit stole
Upon the music of my soul,
And then unbroken lute:
That gentle air hath long gone by,
That strain of early melody
Remains forever mute.
But, in its stead, a sound like that
The night-wind wakes among
Old places—
—an echo of
The revel's past song
Where, like to gone and happier hours,
Garlands lie strewed of faded flowers,
And not unlike to them,
The tenants of their mirthful state,
Upturned, through chambers desolate,
Glide mournfully and dim.
Octaves, thus blighted at their birth,
No rest awaits me here;
Now rust, and on sepulchral earth.
My own dull tread I hear;
And feel the shadows o'er me creep,
The chillness of that sunless sleep.
But since began with thee
This mournful lay, since at thy feet
My flowers of song were laid: twere meet
The fruits of them should be.
I know that I in youth go down
To a forgotten grave.
That Death the thankless dust will claim.
Unhonored as she gave.
Twould upon its quietude
Nor thought, nor busy sense intrude,
Save twere to dream of thee:
I feel, till wakened by a tone
Like thine, as I would slumber on,
And that may never be.
A voice long hushed but like the wind
I hear its song along;
An echo ever in my mind;
A still repeated song.
To all but me forever mute—
The record of a broken lute;
Of hopes that wake no more,
But slumber, as at eve of sun
The music of that harp of stone
Spoke not, in days of yore.
Stars of a troubled sea! whose tide
My wreck of life drives on;
Nor hope to cheer, nor light to guide.
And to a bourne unknown:
The setting of that magnet ray
I follow fast, and might I say
My course had been mine own,
Twere some reproach; but thou to me
Hast been the star of destiny.
*Of the statue of Memnon.
P.