Poems (Douglas)/The Dying Minstrel to his Lyre

by Sarah Parker Douglas

"The Dying Minstrel to his Lyre."

Ah! this is the pillow of green, green moss
 For which I have yearn'd so long
To rest my head, as my soul should pass
 From earth, with its farewell song;
And this is the hour, the lone, still hour,
 In which I so wish'd to die,
When the red beams linger on tree and flow'r,
 And eve's balmy breeze sweeps by.

And now, my lyre, I shall strike thy chords,
 I shall waken thy last, last lay,
For I would that the minstrel's dying words
 Might live in an after day.
Oh, say that I sank into sweet repose
 Ere the gloss from my locks had fled,
Though the rose on my cheek was a faded rose—
 That I slept with the early dead!

And say my heart was a weary heart
 Of life and its bitter thrall,
Of the selfish world, and its cruel art,
 Which the honey-drop changed to gall:
And say ere ever it pined to rest
 'Neath the turf in the cypress shade,
It had found that hope was a powerless zest,
 And trust was for aye betray'd!

But hope! oh, hope had the glorious rays,
 When the flash of my infant fame
Brought throngs of those, who in after days,
 Ah'! colder than ice became.
And trust! how I trusted the friendly smile
 The lip that could speak me fair!
But the veil was riven from hearts the while,
 And I turn'd from what met me there.

And, oh! but the spell was a glorious spell
 That love o'er my spirit flung!
But all, all faded I worshipp'd well,
 And to which I most gladly clung.
Then say, my lyre, that the minstrel said
 It was sweet to be borne away,
When each charm from life and earth had fled
 Which could waken one pulse's play.

Yon floating clouds in the gorgeous west,
 Like banners of gold unfurl'd,
As the crimson sheen of their glories rest
 On this fair and this changing world—
To-morrow shall come and again restore
 The splendours which now you wear;
But to-morrow the soul of the bard shall soar
 'Bove earth and all earthly care.