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THE SILENT LUTE.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


51

THE SILENT LUTE.

I

They bid me string my silent lute
And strike some chords of mirth;
As if my breast no sorrow knew,
At will the strains had birth.
Alas! its music wakes but tears,
Memorials of my by-gone years.

II

I gaze upon the earth beneath,
Hope bids me gaze on high;
And still her light she does bequeath
My aching heart and eye.
Oh! may her shadow cheer my breast,
And wrap me in eternal rest.

III

Though death's drear caves have drank my tears,
Life's tree puts forth its bloom
Around the autumn of my years,
The rose above the tomb;
Yet the foot and the song alike are mute,—
How then should I string my broken lute?