* * * * *
"THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE."
[Illustration]
It surely sounds a pretty phrase,
Some poeesy for woe it wins,
Commemorating roundelays
And troubadours and mandolins:
We seem to view some minstrel-boy
Beside his shattered music mute,
The shattered string, the ruined joy--
The Rift within the Lute.
How swift the slip from tune to twang!
Sweets bitter grow, as aye they did;
For e'en the Roman poet sang
"_Surgit amari aliquid_."
Our pigmy worries turn us grey;
And sorrows fierce are less acute;
Our hearts are riddled every day
With Rifts within the Lute.
You envy FORTUNATUS--rich--
A charming bride--subservient friends.
To rival him were something which
The dream of Avarice transcends.
That charming bride a mother owns
Whom FORTUNATUS brands a brute:
She mars his life's entrancing tones--
His Rift within the Lute!
Then, PEREGRINE--he journeys far;
Unshackled, he by toil's routine:
By turns he quaffs a samovar
Or sherbet, as he shifts his scene.
"Strong as a horse!"--ah! there's the string
That snaps asunder--"to recruit.
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