 | Poems |  |
Each tongue confessed the minstrel's skill;
Each bosom felt the music's thrill;
In ev'ry ear were lingering still
The accents of the mournful lay,
Ere e'en their echo died away:
Again, his harp, still quivering, rung
To louder notes, as thus he sung.—
Each bosom felt the music's thrill;
In ev'ry ear were lingering still
The accents of the mournful lay,
Ere e'en their echo died away:
Again, his harp, still quivering, rung
To louder notes, as thus he sung.—
| Poems | |