IMPRISONED MUSIC

Oh, had I but the poet's voice to sing,

Then would the music prisoned in my heart

( Panting in vain its message to impart )

Hover around thee, Love, on trembling wing,

To tell thee of the soft-eyed hopes that cling

To Love's white feet, the doubts and fears that start

And pierce his bosom with a poisoned dart,—

The smiles that soothe, the cold hard looks that sting!

But‘ tis not mine, the soaring joy of Song:

I strive to voice my soul, but strive in vain.

Though passion thrills, and eager fancies throng,

Deckt in the varying hues of joy and pain,

Yet the weak voice — as weak as Love is strong —

Dies murm'ring on Love's throbbing heart again.