A deep-toned Lyre hung murmuring
    To the wild wind of the sea:
"O melancholy wind," it sigh'd,
    "What would thy breath with me?

"Thou canst not wake the spirit
    That in me slumbering lies,
Thou strikest not forth th' electric fire
    Of buried melodies.

"Wind of the dark sea-waters!
    Thou dost but sweep my strings
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
    With the rushing of thy wings.

"But the spell — the gift — the lightning — 
    Within my frame conceal'd,
Must I moulder on the rock away,
    With their triumphs unreveal'd?

"I have power, high power, for freedom
    To wake the burning soul!
I have sounds that through the ancient hills
    Like a torrent's voice might roll.

"I have pealing notes of victory
    That might welcome kings from war;
I have rich deep tones to send the wail
    For a hero's death afar.

"I have chords to lift the pæan
    From the temple to the sky,
Full as the forest-unisons
    When sweeping winds are high.

"And Love — for Love's lone sorrow
    I have accents that might swell
Through the summer air with the rose's breath,
    Or the violet's faint farewell:

"Soft — spiritual — mournful — 
    Sighs in each note enshrined — 
But who shall call that sweetness forth?
    Thou canst not, ocean-wind!

"I pass without my glory,
    Forgotten I decay — 
Where is the touch to give me life?
     — Wild fitful wind, away!"

So sigh'd the broken music
    That in gladness had no part — 
How like art thou, neglected Lyre,
    To many a human heart!