To a Lady with a Guitar

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     ARIEL to Miranda:—Take
     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.