To A Lady Who Had Been Singing.

The spirit-harp within the breast      A spirit's touch alone can know,     Yet thine the power to wake its rest,      And bid its echoing numbers flow.     Yes, and thy minstrel art the while,      Can blend the tones of weal and we,     So archly, that the heart may smile,      Though bright, unbidden tear-drops flow.     And thus thy wizard skill can weave      Music's soft twilight o'er the breast,     As mingling day and night, at eve,      Robe the far purpling hills for rest.     Thy voice is treasured in my soul,      And echoing memory shall prolong     Those woman tones, whose sweet control      Melts joy and sorrow into song.     The tinted sea-shell, borne away      Far from the ocean's pebbly shore,     Still loves to hum the choral lay,      The whispering mermaid taught of yore.     The hollow cave, that once hath known      Echo's lone voice, can ne'er forget     But gives though parting years have flown      The wild responsive cadence yet.     So shall thy plaintive melody,      Undying, linger in my heart,     Till the last string of memory,      By death's chill finger struck, shall part!