  I. A lay of love!—ask the lone sea, For wealth its waves have closed upon— A song from stern ThermopylÆ— A battle-shout from Marathon! Look on my brow—reveals it nought? It hideth deep rememberings Eternal as the records wrought Within the tombs of Egypt's kings. Take thou the harp! I may not sing: Awake the TeÏan lay divine, Till fire from every glowing string Shall mingle with the flashing wine! II. The Theban lyre but to the sun Gave forth at morn its answering tone; So mine but echoed when the one, One sun-lit glance was o'er it thrown. The Memnon sounds no more!—my lyre, A veil upon thy strings is flung; I may not wake the chords of fire— The words which burn upon my tongue. Fill high the cup! I may not sing; My hand the crowning buds will twine: Pour, till the wreath I o'er it fling, Shall mingle with the rosy wine. III. No lay of love!—the lava stream Hath left its trace on heart and brain; No more! no more! the maddening theme Will wake the slumbering fires again. Fling back the shroud on buried years— Hail, to the ever blooming hours! We'll fill Time's glass with ruby tears, And twine his bald old brow with flowers. Fill high! fill high! I may not sing— Strike forth the TeÏan lay divine, Till fire from every glowing string Shall mingle with the flashing wine! Ione. |
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