THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
159
Yet not the less know I that heart
Was a goal whence proud steeds started,
Though now it be a ruin'd shrine
Whose glory is departed.
For my spirit hath left her earthly home
And found a nobler dwelling,
Where the music of light is that of life,
And the starry harps are swelling.
Yet ever at the midnight hour
That spirit within me burneth,
And joy comes back on his fairy wings,
And glory to me returneth.
But a shade pass'd over the maiden's face;
Some darker image her thoughts retrace;
And so sadly the tones from the harp-strings swept,
'T was as for very pity they wept.
