Sonnet: 12: To the Piano


Sweet instrument, whose mellow voice is flowing,
From yonder silken canopy, in waves
Canorous, like the hidden stream that laves
Its grassy banks, where eglantines are blowing,
And, arching o'er the waters, deeply glowing;
And as the music murmurs in my ear,
The days of long-lost happiness appear,
When, early life its dearest gifts bestowing,
I glided smoothly down the sunny stream,
And dreaming eyed the oft-reflected beam,
That o'er the crisping waters gayly sparkled,
And breathed the scent of blossoms from the bank,
Where bloomy shrubs the flowing crystal drank;
And where beneath the plane its bosom darkled,
I rested on my oar, and heard a sound,
Tender and sweetly modulate, that filled
The thicket with its echoes, far around
Unnumbered voices whispered from the wild,
The zephyr drooped his wings, the clear wave smiled,
And nature seemed as by enchantment thrilled.
There was a form, who breathed that melting tone;
She sat beneath the branches, and she threw
Her fairy fingers o'er her keys, and drew
The essence of their melody; — alone
She sat, and seemed enamored of her strain,
And now she eyed her notes, and then again
Lifted her brow to heaven; — and O what pure,
Exalted harmony breathed from that face,
The living seat of symmetry and grace!
I gazed, and from that kindling fountain bore
A draught of love admiring, which no more
Can fail, but in perennial flow endure.
I hear thy voice, sweet instrument! and then
This fairy vision comes, and o'er me throws
The mantle of its magic, and again
I hear the mellow tone, that from her sweet lip flows.
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