lirik lagu ghizela rowe - letitia elizabeth landon - the improvisatrice - sappho's song
farewell, my lute!—and would that i
had never waked thy burning chords!
poison has been upon thy sigh
and fever has breathed in thy words
yet wherefore, wherefore should i blame
thy power, thy spell, my gentlest lute?
i should have been the wretch i am
had every chord of thine been mute
it was my evil star above
not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong;
it was not song that taught me love
but it was love that taught me song
if song be past, and hope undone
and pulse, and hеad, and heart, are flame;
it is thy work, thou faithlеss one!
but, no!—i will not name thy name!
sun~god, lute, wreath are vowed to thee!
long be their light upon my grave—
my glorious grave—yon deep blue sea:
i shall sleep calm beneath its wave!
——————
florence! with what idolatry
i ’ve lingered in thy radiant halls
worshipping, till my dizzy eye
grew dim with gazing on those walls
where time had spared each glorious gift
by g~nius unto memory left!
and when seen by the pale moonlight
more pure, more perfect, though less bright
what dreams of song flashed on my brain
till each shade seemed to live again;
and then the beautiful, the grand
the glorious of my native land
in every flower that threw its veil
aside, when wooed by the spring gale;
in every vineyard, where the sun
his task of summer ripening done
shone on their cl~sters, and a song
came lightly from the peasant throng;—
in the dim loveliness of night
in fountains with their diamond light
in aged temple, ruined shrine
and its green wreath of ivy twine;—
in every change of earth and sky
breathed the deep soul of poesy
as yet i loved not;—but each wild
high thought i nourished raised a pyre
for love to light; and lighted once
by love, it would be like the fire
the burning lava floods that dwell
in etna’s cave unquenchable
one evening in the lovely june
over the arno’s waters gliding
i had been watching the fair moon
amid her court of white clouds riding;—
i had been listening to the gale
which wafted music from around
(for scarce a lover, at that hour
but waked his mandolin’s light sound),—
and odour was upon the breeze
sweet thefts from rose and lemon trees
they stole me from my lulling dream
and said they knew that such an hour
had ever influence on my soul
and raised my sweetest minstrel power
i took my lute,—my eye had been
wandering round the lovely scene
filled with those melancholy tears
which come when all most bright appears
and hold their strange and secret power
even on pleasure’s golden hour
i had been looking on the river
half~marvelling to think that ever
wind, wave, or sky, could darken where
all seemed so gentle and so fair:
and mingled with these thoughts there came
a tale, just one that memory keeps—
forgotten music, still some chance
vibrate the chord whereon it sleeps!
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