The Poetical Works of Robert Story | ||
My Harp was made from stunted tree,
The growth of Glendale's barest lea;
Yet fresh as prouder stems it grew,
And drank, with leaf as green, the dew;
Bright showers, from Till or Beaumont shed,
Its roots with needful moisture fed;
Gay birds, Northumbrian skies that wing,
Amid its branches loved to sing;
And purple Cheviot's breezy air
Kept up a life-like quivering there.
From Harp thence framed, and rudely strung,
Can aught but lowly strain be flung?
No! if, ambition-led, I dream
Of striking it to lofty theme,
All harshly jar its tortured chords
As plaining such should be its lord's;
But all its sweetness waketh still
To lay of Border stream or hill!
The growth of Glendale's barest lea;
Yet fresh as prouder stems it grew,
And drank, with leaf as green, the dew;
Bright showers, from Till or Beaumont shed,
Its roots with needful moisture fed;
Gay birds, Northumbrian skies that wing,
Amid its branches loved to sing;
And purple Cheviot's breezy air
Kept up a life-like quivering there.
From Harp thence framed, and rudely strung,
Can aught but lowly strain be flung?
No! if, ambition-led, I dream
Of striking it to lofty theme,
All harshly jar its tortured chords
As plaining such should be its lord's;
But all its sweetness waketh still
To lay of Border stream or hill!
The Poetical Works of Robert Story | ||