lirik lagu ghizela rowe - the song - extract from the zenana - letitia elizabeth landon
“my lonely lute, how can i ask
for music from thy silent strings?
it is too sorrowful a task
when only swept by memory’s wings:
yet waken from thy charmed sleep
although i wake thee but to weep
” yet once i had a thousand songs
as now i have but only one
ah, love, whate’er to thee belongs
with all life’s other links, has done;
and i can breathe no other words
than thou hast left upon the chords
” they say camdeo’s place of rest
when floating down the ganges’ tide
is in the languid lotus breast
amid whose sweets he loves to hide
oh, false and cruel, though divinе
what dost thou in so fair a shrine?
” and such the hearts that thou dost choosе
as pure, as fair, to shelter thee;
alas! they know not what they lose
who chance thy dwelling~place to be
for, never more in happy dream
will they float down life’s sunny stream
” my gentle lute, repeat one name
the very soul of love, and thine:
no; sleep in silence, let me frame
some other love to image mine;
steal sadness from another’s tone
i dare not trust me with my own
” thy chords will win their mournful way
all treasured thoughts to them belong;
for things it were so hard to say
are murmured easily in song —
it is for music to impart
the secrets of the burthened heart
” go, taught by misery and love
and thou hast spells for every ear:
but the sweet sk!ll each pulse to move
alas! hath bought its knowledge dear —
bought by the wretchedness of years
a whole life dedicate to tears
the voice has ceased, the chords are mute
the singer droops upon her lute;
but, oh, the fulness of each tone
straight to nadira’s heart hath gone —
as if that mournful song revealed
depths in that heart till then concealed
a world of melancholy thought
then only into being brought;
those tender mysteries of the soul
like words on an enchanted scroll
whose mystic meaning but appears
when washed and understood by tears
she gazed upon the singer’s face;
deeply that young brow wore the trace
of years that leave their stamp behind:
the wearied hope — the fever’d mind —
the heart which on itself hath turned
worn out with feelings — slighted — spurned —
till scarce one throb remained to show
what warm emotions slept below
never to be renewed again
and known but by remembered pain
her cheek was pale — impassioned pale —
like ashes white with former fire
passion which might no more prevail
the rose had been its own sweet pyre
you gazed upon the large black eyes
and felt what unshed tears were there;
deep, gloomy, wild, like midnight skies
when storms are heavy on the air —
and on the small red lip sat scorn
writhing from what the past had borne
but far too proud to sigh — the will
though crushed, subdued, was haughty still;
last refuge of the spirit’s pain
which finds endurance in disdain
others wore blossoms in their hair
and golden bangles round the arm
she took no pride in being fair
the gay delight of youth to charm;
the softer wish of love to please
what had she now to do with these?
she knew herself a bartered slave
whose only refuge was the grave
unsoftened now by those sweet notes
which half subdued the grief they told
her long black hair neglected floats
o’er that wan face, like marble cold;
and carelessly her listless hand
wandered above her lute’s command
but silently — or just a tone
woke into music, and was gone
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