Poems MacCarthy, Florence Denis

250
Again on wings of melody, so fine
They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear
Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline--
And with the music of a happier sphere
Entrance some master of melodious sound,
Till startled men the hymns of angels hear.
Happy for me when, in the vacant round
Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul
Faithful to me and to his art is found.
But, ah! my sisters, with my grief condole;
Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs;
And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll;
Weep those who falter in the great emprise--
Who, turning off upon some poor pretence,
Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize,
Down from the airy zenith through the immense
Sink to the low expedients of an hour,
And barter soul for all the slough of sense,--
Just when the mind had reached its regal power,
And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,--
Just when the bud of promise in the flower
Of all completeness opened on the world--
When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung
Back to its native empyrean curled,
Like vocal incense from a censer swung:--
Ah, me! to be subdued when all seemed won--
That I should fly when I would fain have clung.
Yet so it is,--our radiant course is run;--
Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung,
And, more than all, the deathless deed undone.