P Q E T R Y

THE MASTER HAND.
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BY MRS. NORTON. And dost thou say my heart is cold, Because thine eye cannot discover (As round it's jealous glance is rolled On glittering erowds) one welcome loyer' And dost thou think l cannot love, Because thy suit my lips reprove Oh valueless the wind-harps tone,

 Which, swept by summers careless bfcezcs, Gives forth q wild, uncertain moan,

 As often az the zephyr pleases, Who marks its faint and careless sigh Once heard, il hath no melody But when the stricken Tyre, which long Hath hung upon the wall dccaying, Breafhes out it's soul otlove and song

 Obedient 10 the mnstrel's playing, And to it's masters touch alone Responds with loud and painive tone,--- Then, then the power of music breaks

 The spell that bound our calmcr feeling, And every sumhering passion wakes

 In answer to it's wild appealing, Ill our swollen hearts. too full for words, Die trembling on those qnverng chords. Years bring no change Even though we stan Where cold the mnstrel's form is lying, Fancy shall see that skilfu hand

 Once more among the sweet strings flying: And muslc s floating notes sbaii come, To mock the silence Of the tomb. And many an hour and many day,

 Shall memory please herself by bringing Small scattered fragments of the lay

 That hung upon that wild harp's ringing Though summer breeze carcss in vain, And soulless hands awake no strain Even so the heart that sad and cold,

 Warns not beneath thy careless wooing, Hath known loves powers in days of old,

 And Worshipped-to its own undoing; And many passion, quiet now, Hath glowed upon my faded brow. And still, perchance, the day may come,

 When, from it's halls of silence taken That heart in it's deserted home.

 To life and love and joy shall waken If hath the music at command But thine is not the masters hand