Broken Barbiton—Withered Laurel-Wreath and Broken Heart

IT was the close of day upon the shoresOf beauteous Naples. The low murmuring wavesThat-rose and fell upon the "Siren's sea,"Gleamed like pale rubies in the sunset glow;The dim isles, veiled in mists of silver, roseFar through the dim and shadowy atmosphere;The pale, sweet stars shone calm and beautifulIn the blue diadem of night, and shapesOf loveliness and beauty seemed to stealForth from the soft and deepening shades, as Love,And star-eyed Hope, and pensive MemorySteal from the twilight of the heart. Afar,Like a huge column moving in the heavens,Soared the gray smoke of old Vesuvius,From its broad base of lurid flame; the shaftOf Maro's tomb above the beetling cliffWas drawn against the deep blue sky, and softThe scattered gardens of the Caprea shone:Like "wrecks of Paradise." No human voiceBroke the deep spell of silence and repose,That rested like a calm, mysterious dreamUpon the landscape, yet the air still seemedAll musical, and strangely eloquentWith the hushed cadences and passion-sighsOf deep and burning love.

Ah! 'mid this sceneOf loveliness and deep serenity:The traces of despair, and woe, and deathWere darkly visible. The twilight's lastSweet, rosy smile of gentleness and loveStole softly, calmly, beautifully throughThe parted vines that bloomed and clustered o'erThe window of an humble cottage home,And fell upon the white brow of the dead,As human love falls vainly on the heartOf cold despair. Alone the minstrel sleptIn his unbreathing rest. Upon the floor,Beside him, lay the cherished laurel-wreath.His only wealth, the guerdon of his toils,The one dear boon for which, through weary yearsOf bitter sorrows, he had patientlyStruggled and suffered, pouring forth his wild,Deep soul of music, while keen agonyWas tearing his great heart. There, there it layAll pale and withering, like the throbless browWhence it had fallen.

There, beside him too,Broken and silent lay his barbiton,His own familiar, in whose spirit tonesHis spirit e'er had found in joy and griefA faithful echo. It had been his friend,True and unfailing, 'mid the darkened wrecksOf human friendships. It had been his love,His child, his life, and his religion.Had talked to it at twilight's wizard hour,The hour that now closed over it and him,And it had answered him in tones of moreThan earthly sympathy. And he had won,With its dear aid, the wreath so fondly deemedThe emblem of fame's immortality.But now the dust was on its loosened chords,That, like his own dark tresses, swept the floor,To sound no more, save when perchance the wind,Straying at nightfall through that ruined cot,Should gently stir them with its breath of sighs,To one low wail, one melancholy moan,For him who so had loved them.

'Twas a sceneTo move the heart to tears. The world around,The air, the earth, the sky, the ocean, seemedFlooded with beauty; every isle that gleamedIn the deep sea, and every sweet star isleThat glittered in the blue sky, seemed a brightCalypso of the heart, yet in that loneAnd silent cottage home, the minstrel pale—The wreath that he had purchased with the cries,The wild shrieks of his spirit—and the lyre,The sole companion of his life of toil,His heart's dear idol—mouldered side by side,Unheeded by the careless race of men.

Louisville, February, 1852.