INTRODUCTION.

INTRODUCTION.

BENEATH a willow's wither'd bough,

A stringless Harp forgotten lay; The hand, that once had wak'd a flow

Of" thoughts that breathe," had shrunk away,

And, in the grave's retired cell,
Forgot the strains it lov'd so well.

Upon the bough, the Harp had hung;
The Master's hand had plac'd it there;

And oft, when ruder breezes flung
Its strange notes on the ruffled air,
The Genius, of an earlier time,
Appear'd to wake its fitful chime.

B

While ev'ry cadence, loud and long,

By holy energy inspir'd,

Had burst, in tides of sacred song,

To mourn the heart they once had fir'd: Yet still the blast's returning force,

But swept the Harper's clay-cold corse.

And oft, when gentle zephyrs blew,
Its wild, uncertain numbers fell;
As if the Harp, to science true,

Were warbling forth her Master's knell:
But mournful airs symphonious rung,

And still the Harp neglected hung.

The circling seasons, day and night;
The western star, the orient sun,
Still set and rose, with rays as bright
As when their earliest course begun;
But morning's beam or ev'ning's gloom,
But light or shade the minstrel's tomb.

The sacred fire, that touch'd his tongue,
And sparkled from his dazzling eye,
That lighted up the blaze of song
To sweep, as light'ning thro' the sky,
Is hid beneath the moss-clad stone;
All, but the Poet's Harp, is gone!

The circling seasons roll'd along,

And carried many a string away;

But still the Harp, devote to song,
Woo'd, sweetly woo'd, the breeze to play :
Or cast, upon its passing gale,

A wild, and sadly mournful tale.

At last one string, and only one,

Remain'd to meet the storm that fell,

It burst, and, with its dying groan,
Rung out a deep, discordant yell :

The willow branch, by light'ning riv'n,
And stringless Harp to earth were driv'n.