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, Upon the bough, the Harp had hung; And oft, when ruder breezes flung 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, Were warbling forth her Master's knell: And still the Harp neglected hung. The circling seasons, day and night; The sacred fire, that touch'd his tongue, The circling seasons roll'd along, And carried many a string away; But still the Harp, devote to song, 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, The willow branch, by light'ning riv'n, |