His story told--the all-entrancing joy His skill could give,--but well the rogue concealed The piercing thorns that flourish, unrevealed, Along the artist's path--the poverty, the strife Of study, and the weary waste of life-- All these, the drawback of his wily tale, The little artist covered with a veil. Young Damon listened, and his heart beat high-- But now a cunning archer gained his eye-- And stealing close, he whispered in his ear, A glowing tale, so musical and dear, That Damon vowed, like many a panting youth, To Love, eternal constancy and truth! But while the whisper from his bosom broke, A fearful Image to his spirit spoke: With frowning brow, and giant arm he stood, Holding a glass, as if in threatening mood, He waited but a moment for the sand, To sweep the idle Dreamer from the land! Young Damon started, and his dream was o'er, But to his soul, the seeming vision bore A solemn meaning, which he could not spurn-- And Youth, perchance, may from our fable learn, That while the beckoning passions woo and sigh, TIME, with his ready scythe, stands listening by. Remembrance.[A] You bid the minstrel strike the lute, And wake once more a soothing tone-- Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute, Or only echo moan for moan. The flowers around it twined are dead, And those who wreathed them there, are flown; The spring that gave them bloom is fled, And winter's frost is o'er them thrown. Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care, I fain would try thy strings once more,-- Perchance some lingering tone is there-- Some cherished melody of yore. If flowers that bloom no more are here, Their odors still around us cling-- And though the loved are lost-still dear, Their memories may wake the string. I strike--but lo, the wonted thrill, Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies: Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill, And the sad lute, responsive, sighs. 'Tis ever thus--our life begins, In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet-- We taste and knowledge, with our sins, Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat. In youth, the sun brings light alone-- No shade then rests upon the sight-- But when the beaming morn is flown, We see the shadows--not the light I once found music every where-- The whistle from the willow wrung-- The string, set in the window, there, Sweet measures to my fancy flung. But now, this dainty lute is dead-- Or answers but to sigh and wail, Echoing the voices of the fled, Passing before me dim and pale! Yet angel forms are in that train, And One upon the still air flings, Of woven melody, a strain, Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings.