To a Lady with a Guitar

    This slave of music for the sake

    Of him who is the slave of thee；

    And teach it all the harmony

    In which thou canst and only thou

    Make the delighted spirit glow

    Till joy denies itself again

    And too intense is turn'd to pain.

    For by permission and command

    Of thine own Prince Ferdinand

    Poor Ariel sends this silent token

    Of more than ever can be spoken；

    Your guardian spirit Ariel who

    From life to life must still pursue

    Your happiness for thus alone

    Can Ariel ever find his own.

    From Prospero's enchanted cell

    As the mighty verses tell

    To the throne of Naples he

    Lit you o'er the trackless sea

    Flitting on your prow before

    Like a living meteor.

    When you die the silent Moon

    In her interlunar swoon

    Is not sadder in her cell

    Than deserted Ariel：—

    When you live again on earth

    Like an unseen Star of birth

    Ariel guides you o'er the sea

    Of life from your nativity：—

    Many changes have been run

    Since Ferdinand and you begun

    Your course of love and Ariel still

    Has track'd your steps and served your will.

    Now in humbler happier lot

    This is all remember'd not；

    And now alas the poor Sprite is

    Imprison'd for some fault of his

    In a body like a grave—

    From you he only dares to crave

    For his service and his sorrow

    A smile to-day a song to-morrow.

    The artist who this viol wrought

    To echo all harmonious thought

    Fell'd a tree while on the steep

    The woods were in their winter sleep

    Rock'd in that repose divine

    On the wind-swept Apennine；

    And dreaming some of autumn past

    And some of spring approaching fast

    And some of April buds and showers

    And some of songs in July bowers

    And all of love； and so this tree —

    Oh that such our death may be！—

    Died in sleep and felt no pain

    To live in happier form again：

    From which beneath heaven's fairest star

    The artist wrought this loved guitar；

    And taught it justly to reply

    To all who question skilfully

    In language gentle as thine own；

    Whispering in enamour'd tone

    Sweet oracles of woods and dells

    And summer winds in sylvan cells.

    For it had learnt all harmonies

    Of the plains and of the skies

    Of the forests and the mountains

    And the many-voicèd fountains；

    The clearest echoes of the hills

    The softest notes of falling rills

    The melodies of birds and bees

    The murmuring of summer seas

    And pattering rain and breathing dew

    And airs of evening； and it knew

    That seldom-heard mysterious sound

    Which driven on its diurnal round

    As it floats through boundless day

    Our world enkindles on its way：—

    All this it knows but will not tell

    To those who cannot question well

    The spirit that inhabits it：

    It talks according to the wit

    Of its companions； and no more

    Is heard than has been felt before

    By those who tempt it to betray

    These secrets of an elder day.

    But sweetly as its answers will

    Flatter hands of perfect skill

    It keeps its highest holiest tone

    For one beloved Friend alone.