Sweet bard! whose magic fingers know, How best to wake the wild harps thrill; To calm the tear or bid it flow, And mould each passion to thy will; Who with a poets glowing fire, Bidst feeling burn in every line; Tell us what minstrel dare aspire, To touch the harp that once was thine?
The harp with cypress is entwined, And weeping flowerets round it spring; At eve, the hollow moaning wind, Sighs o'er each now neglected string; Though many a "Son of Song" is there, Who tries to rouse its fairy tone; All must the fruitless task forbear, And own 'twas strung for thee alone.
In silence then, the lyre must sleep, Till thou return'st to wake the strain; No hand save thine has power to weep, Its heaven-strung chords — they strike in vain; Each note a hallow murmur dies; The tones no more are clear and free; And mourning genius 'frighted flies To seek a distant clime with thee!
