I see the glorious boy--his dark locks wreathing Wildly the wan and spiritual brow, His sweet, curved lip the soul of music breathing; His blue Greek eyes, that speak Love's loyal vow; I see him bend on _thee_ that eloquent glance, The while those wondrous notes the realm of terror trance! I see his face, with more than mortal beauty Kindling, as armed with that sweet lyre alone, Pledged to a holy and heroic duty, He stands serene before the awful throne, And looks on Hades' horrors with clear eyes, Since thou, his own adored Eurydice, art nigh! Now soft and low a prelude sweet uprings, As if a prisoned angel--pleading there For life and love--were fettered 'neath the strings, And poured his passionate soul upon the air! Anon, it clangs with wild, exultant swell, Till the full paean peals triumphantly through Hell! And thou--thy pale hands meekly locked before thee-- Thy sad eyes drinking _life_ from _his_ dear gaze-- Thy lips apart--thy hair a halo o'er thee, Trailing around thy throat its golden maze-- Thus--with all words in passionate silence dying-- Within thy _soul_ I hear Love's eager voice replying-- "Play on, mine Orpheus! Lo! while these are gazing, Charmed into statues by thy God-taught strain, I--I alone, to thy dear face upraising My tearful glance, the life of life regain! For every tone that steals into my heart Doth to its worn, weak pulse a mighty power impart. Play on, mine Orpheus! while thy music floats Through the dread realm, divine with truth and grace, See, dear one! how the chain of linked notes Has fettered every spirit in its place! Even Death, beside me, still and helpless lies; And strives in vain to chill my frame with his cold eyes. Still, mine own Orpheus, sweep the golden lyre! Ah! dost thou mark how gentle Proserpine, With clasped hands, and eyes whose azore fire Gleams through quick tears, thrilled by thy lay, doth lean Her graceful head upon her stern lord's breast, Like an o'erwearied child, whom music lulls to rest? Play my proud minstrel! strike the chords again! Lo! Victory crowns at last thy heavenly skill! For Pluto turns relenting to the strain-- He waves his hand--he speaks his awful will! My glorious Greek! lead on; but ah! _still_ lend Thy soul to thy sweet lyre, lest yet thou lose thy friend! Think not of me! Think rather of the time, When moved by thy resistless melody, To the strange magic of a song sublime, Thy argo grandly glided to the sea! And in the majesty Minerva gave, The graceful galley swept, with joy, the sounding wave!