O, injured lyre! thy golden frame is marred; No garlands deck thee; no libations poured Tell to the earth the triumphs of thy song; No princely halls echo thy strains along; But still the strings are there; and if at last they break, Even in death some melody will make. Mightst thou once more be strung, might yet the power be given, To tell in numbers all thou hast of heaven! But no! thy fragments scattered by the way, To children given, help the childish play. Be it thy pride to feel thy latest sigh Could not forget the law of harmony, Thou couldst not live for bliss--but thou for truth couldst die! TO MISS R. B.[47] A graceful fiction of the olden day Tells us that, by a mighty master's sway, A city rose, obedient to the lyre; That his sweet strains rude matter could inspire With zeal his harmony to emulate; Thus to the spot where that sweet singer sat The rocks advanced, in symmetry combined, To form the palace and the temple joined. The arts are sisters, and united all, So architecture answered music's call. In modern days such feats no more we see, And matter dares 'gainst mind a rebel be; The faith is gone such miracles which wrought; Masons and carpenters must aid our thought; The harp and voice in vain would try their skill To raise a city on our hard-bound soil; The rocks have lain asleep so many a year, Nothing but gunpowder will make them stir; I doubt if even for your voice would come The smallest pebble from its sandy home; But, if the minstrel can no more create, For _building_, if he live a little late, He wields a power of not inferior kind, No longer rules o'er matter, but o'er mind. And when a voice like yours its song doth pour, If it can raise palace and tower no more, It can each ugly fabric melt away, Bidding the fancy fairer scenes portray; Its soft and brilliant tones our thoughts can wing To climes whence they congenial magic bring; As by the sweet Italian voice is given Dream of the radiance of Italia's heaven. Whether in round, low notes the strain may swell, As if some tale of woe or wrong to tell, Or swift and light the upward notes are heard, With the full carolling clearness of a bird, The stream of sound untroubled flows along, And no obstruction mars your finished song. No stifled notes, no gasp, no ill-taught graces, No vulgar trills in worst-selected places, None of the miseries which haunt a land Where all would learn what so few understand, Afflict in hearing you; in you we find The finest organ, and informed by mind.