STANZAS.

BY MISS ELIZABETH M. ALLISON.

Again, in this lone hour, I snatch my lyre,O’er which the chain of silence long has lain,To wake once more the too neglected strain;Ah! could I touch it with immortal fire,And pour the burning melody of songIn one full tide its thrilling chords along.Alas! from me has fled the power of song,That once flung its deep crimson sun-like glowOf promise, o’er my path of life below,In deep-toned visions, such as not belongTo things of earth, but float with forms of airIn the bright realms of space like houri’s fair.But see, again what spells around me lour,—Forms such as Dante pictured in that hell,His proud soul bursting in his lone farewellFrom exiled Florence, flash my view before:With Tasso’s heroes armed in holy fight,Or Ariosto’s bower for nymph and errant-knight.Thou too![6]to whom a poet’s fire was given,And all a poet’s quenchless thirst of fame,Quick kindling fancies, half of air and flame,Passions and feelings born but to be riven,What though denied to vent in verse their forceIn poesy was their impassioned source.How wild soe’er the dreams born in that mindBy Vevay’s bank, they link thee with the fewWhose bright reward the laurel and the rue,Emblem of suffering and of fame were twinedIn the undying wreath—and must such beThe poet’s crown of immortality?Change we the chords, and wake another strain;Too high aspirings in my bosom swell,As spirits hallowed each by the bright spellOf burning poesy come o’er my brain,Till every nerve with o’er wrought feeling fraught,Throbs with a pained intensity of thought.Why was my soul thus proudly taught to soar?Why were these visions wakened in my breast,These wild ambitionings that mar its rest,Scathing, as if with fire, its inmost core,With bright imaginings of other sphereLaunched from their former source; what do they here?Ah! if the muse bestowed them but in vain,Meaning them ne’er to glow to deeds of fire,But sent like lightnings, in their fatal flameTo sear all verdure from the smiling plain!Take back the power of song, the Muses’ fire,And grant that bliss which humbler themes in spire.

Again, in this lone hour, I snatch my lyre,

O’er which the chain of silence long has lain,

To wake once more the too neglected strain;

Ah! could I touch it with immortal fire,

And pour the burning melody of song

In one full tide its thrilling chords along.

Alas! from me has fled the power of song,That once flung its deep crimson sun-like glowOf promise, o’er my path of life below,In deep-toned visions, such as not belongTo things of earth, but float with forms of airIn the bright realms of space like houri’s fair.

Alas! from me has fled the power of song,

That once flung its deep crimson sun-like glow

Of promise, o’er my path of life below,

In deep-toned visions, such as not belong

To things of earth, but float with forms of air

In the bright realms of space like houri’s fair.

But see, again what spells around me lour,—Forms such as Dante pictured in that hell,His proud soul bursting in his lone farewellFrom exiled Florence, flash my view before:With Tasso’s heroes armed in holy fight,Or Ariosto’s bower for nymph and errant-knight.

But see, again what spells around me lour,—

Forms such as Dante pictured in that hell,

His proud soul bursting in his lone farewell

From exiled Florence, flash my view before:

With Tasso’s heroes armed in holy fight,

Or Ariosto’s bower for nymph and errant-knight.

Thou too![6]to whom a poet’s fire was given,And all a poet’s quenchless thirst of fame,Quick kindling fancies, half of air and flame,Passions and feelings born but to be riven,What though denied to vent in verse their forceIn poesy was their impassioned source.

Thou too![6]to whom a poet’s fire was given,

And all a poet’s quenchless thirst of fame,

Quick kindling fancies, half of air and flame,

Passions and feelings born but to be riven,

What though denied to vent in verse their force

In poesy was their impassioned source.

How wild soe’er the dreams born in that mindBy Vevay’s bank, they link thee with the fewWhose bright reward the laurel and the rue,Emblem of suffering and of fame were twinedIn the undying wreath—and must such beThe poet’s crown of immortality?

How wild soe’er the dreams born in that mind

By Vevay’s bank, they link thee with the few

Whose bright reward the laurel and the rue,

Emblem of suffering and of fame were twined

In the undying wreath—and must such be

The poet’s crown of immortality?

Change we the chords, and wake another strain;Too high aspirings in my bosom swell,As spirits hallowed each by the bright spellOf burning poesy come o’er my brain,Till every nerve with o’er wrought feeling fraught,Throbs with a pained intensity of thought.

Change we the chords, and wake another strain;

Too high aspirings in my bosom swell,

As spirits hallowed each by the bright spell

Of burning poesy come o’er my brain,

Till every nerve with o’er wrought feeling fraught,

Throbs with a pained intensity of thought.

Why was my soul thus proudly taught to soar?Why were these visions wakened in my breast,These wild ambitionings that mar its rest,Scathing, as if with fire, its inmost core,With bright imaginings of other sphereLaunched from their former source; what do they here?

Why was my soul thus proudly taught to soar?

Why were these visions wakened in my breast,

These wild ambitionings that mar its rest,

Scathing, as if with fire, its inmost core,

With bright imaginings of other sphere

Launched from their former source; what do they here?

Ah! if the muse bestowed them but in vain,Meaning them ne’er to glow to deeds of fire,But sent like lightnings, in their fatal flameTo sear all verdure from the smiling plain!Take back the power of song, the Muses’ fire,And grant that bliss which humbler themes in spire.

Ah! if the muse bestowed them but in vain,

Meaning them ne’er to glow to deeds of fire,

But sent like lightnings, in their fatal flame

To sear all verdure from the smiling plain!

Take back the power of song, the Muses’ fire,

And grant that bliss which humbler themes in spire.

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