'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.
Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.
SING, SWEET HARP.
Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
Long buried dreams shall raise;--
Some lay that tells of vanished fame,
Whose light once round us shone;
Of noble pride, now turned to shame,
And hopes for ever gone.--
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
We live but in the past.
How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
Of voices long gone by;--
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed
The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,
Now sleep without a name.--
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.
Couldst thou but call those spirits round.
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