The Incantation Poem by Peter John Allan

Oh! silent lute, when will thy silver chords
Give the light wings of melody to words-
Words sweet as are the lips from whence they flow
In murmurings passionate with joy or woe?
When will the oracle that dwells in thee
Speak forth in melody?

Lady! the faithful friend of bygone hours,
Passed in the coolest green of shady bowers,
Why is that friend in silence doomed to pine,
Whose voice of old could sweetly answer thine?
What mem'ries would the dear familiar sound
Summon from all around?

O Music, lofty echo of our thought,
In thee we find all that we ever sought
Elsewhere in vain; the truthful sympathy
Which lovers dream is realized in thee.
The breath of the pure spirit, the wild flight
Of misery or delight.

Our frame is but as yonder lute-our soul
The sweet musician, who can still control
And move us to each bright heroic deed,
Upon whose memory music loves to feed;
Make of us warriors, poets, great and wise,
Through heaven-taught symphonies!

Where is the angel who would fold his wings,
Where the gay lark, whose voice through morning rings,
Would leave for this dark earth the fields of air,
Nor freely chant to heaven his thrilling prayer?
Where is the star, would wish to fade and fall
From the deep azure hall?

Where the Enchantress, whose melodious breath
Can give to all our griefs a welcome death?
Whose witching tones can win the list'ning heart
To laugh or weep, so natural the art
With which along the strings her fingers move,
Inspiring thoughts of love?
Where the Enchantress, who condemns to mute,
Dull, lifeless sleep the magic of her lute,
Nor pours into its soul her ev'ry thought,
Sparkling with genius, deep with rapture fraught?
Who, lady, can this fair Enchantress be
That so resembles thee?