Poem-a-Day

Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung 
        On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan’s spring 
     And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, 
        Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 
     Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,— 
        O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep? 
     Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, 
        Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, 
     Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?

     Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
        Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, 
     When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, 
        Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud. 
     At each according pause was heard aloud 
        Thine ardent symphony sublime and high! 
     Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed; 
        For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 
     Was Knighthood’s dauntless deed, and Beauty’s matchless eye.

     O, wake once more! how rude soe’er the hand 
        That ventures o’er thy magic maze to stray; 
     O, wake once more! though scarce my skill command 
        Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: 
     Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away, 
        And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, 
     Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 
        The wizard note has not been touched in vain. 
     Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!