THE SONG OF THE DYING BARD.
I.
My harp! I still hold thee!
My feeble hand clings
Around thee, to waken
The voice of thy strings.
That voice was my glory,
And now that the skill
Of the minstrel must leave me,
'Tis dear to me still.
Oh! dearer than ever!
My harp, if thou hast
One note, I invoke it;
The sweetest, the last!
II.
Ah! well I remember
How proudly I nurst
My powers in secret,
When feeling them first!
Now throwing thee from me,
Dejected, deprest!
Yet dearer than ever!
My harp, if thou hast
One note, I invoke it,
The sweetest, the last!
III.
'Tis early to leave thee,
'Tis early to lose
The young bard's ambition
The wreath of the muse:
And feeling within me
Fresh fountains of thought,
To die—leaving others
The triumph I sought.
Oh! dearer than ever!
My harp, if thou hast
One note, I invoke it,
The sweetest, the last!
