Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Alas! my harp, this feeble hand
No longer can thy tones command,
For age, and penury, and wrong,
Poor patrons of a child of song,
Have bowed the heart which once beat high
In praise of thee, sweet minstrelsy.
No more the roof-tree echoes loud
The welcomes of a joyous crowd;
No more the hearth-sire blazes bright,
A refuge from the stormy night;

Nor gold, nor gem is now bestow'd
To lighten want's increasing load.—
Woe, to the nobles of the land
Who scorn free heart and open hand,
Who bar their castle gates, once free
To all, of high or low degree,
And (all unlike those good old times)
Seek luxury in foreign climes.
In grief and loneliness I've mourn'd
Full many an hour away,
That thus the spirit of the land
Should lose its ancient sway;
That men, who own a noble name
Should thus desert the lists of fame,
Till e'en their vassals blush for shame
At such apostacy!
Vain my lament! no minstrel's lay
Will ever rend their bonds away;—
Vain my lament! no warlike song
Will now give courage to the strong;

No blade will leave its scabbard now,
No frown will clothe the warrior's brow,
No flashings of indignant ire
Will light the recreant's eye with fire;
Quench'd is the flame—the spirit fled—
The soul of chivalry is dead!