"Adieu! adieu! adieu!
Thou sawest how we were; thou sawest, too,
Thou wert not so; for in the inmost shrine
Of my deep heart are thoughts that are not thine.
And thou art gone, fair mariner! in foam
And music-murmurs, to thy blessed home--
Adieu! adieu! Thou sawest how that she
Sleeps in her holy beauty, tranquilly;
And when the fair and floating vision breaks
From her pure brow, and Agathe awakes--
Till then, we meet not; so adieu, adieu!"
Still on before the sullen tempest flew,
Fast as a meteor star, the lonely bark:
And Julio bent over to the dark,
The solitary sea, for close beside
Floated the stringed harp of one that died
In that wild shipwreck, and he drew it home,
With madness, to his bosom: the white foam
Was o'er its strings; and on the streaming sail
He wiped them, running, with his fingers pale,
Along the tuneless notes, that only gave
Seldom responses to his wandering stave!
TO THE HARP
I
Jewel! that lay before the heart
Of some romantic boy,
And startled music in her home,
Of mystery and joy!
II
The image of his love was there;
And, with her golden wings,
She swept her tone of sorrow from
Thy melancholy strings!
III
We drew thee, as an orphan one,
From waters that had cast
No music round thee, as they went
In their pale beauty past.
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