Neglected now is the old
And moldering into decay;
Fretted with many a rift and
That the dull dust hides away,
While the spider spins a silver
In its silent lips to-day.
The keys hold only nerveless strings—The sinews of brave old
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that
So closely here declaresA sad regret in its
And the faded hue it wears.
But the old guitar, with a lenient grace,
Has cherished a smile for me;
And its features hint of a fairer
That comes with a
Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted
And a moonlit balcony.
Music sweeter than words confess,
Or the minstrel's powers invent,
Thrilled here once at the light
Of the fairy hands that
This excuse for the kiss I
On the dear old instrument.
The rose of pearl with the jeweled
Still blooms; and the tiny
In the circle all are here; the
In the keys, and the silver frets;
But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them—Alas for the heart's regrets!—Alas for the loosened strings to-day,
And the wounds of rift and
On a worn old heart, with its
Enthralled with a stronger
That Fate weaves on, through a dull
Like that of the old guitar!
