By Elizabeth Fries Ellet
From The Opal, 1849
When Memnon’s silent form the god of day,
Touched at his rising with his glance of fire,
A music as from harps that seraphs play
Thrilled soft and golden from that silent lyre.
All cold—the fable says—Pygmalion’s stone,
Till clasped the statue to the artist breast—
And life’s warm current, pouring from his own,
Weakened the statue from its soulless rest!
Thus dull and cold my heart—till inspiration,
Sweet lady, from your radiant smile it drew;
Ah, list the music of its low vibration—
It murmurs but one song—and sings of you!