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Some feast, or village wake, or sprightly dance,
Urging her still to bear them company. .
She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time
(The fav'rite legend of our country folk
Hath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'd
Carelessly in the crowd, remember'd notes
Struck by a harper in a distant tent,
Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs,
Which are, they say, the harbingers of death,
Flow'd on her car—when, with impulsive spring,
As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet,
Fearing the sounds wou'd vanish into air,
And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot,
She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend,
The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'd
The hand that lay upon the quivering chords,
Stopping their melody and resting mute.
The pause was awfu'—He at length exclaim'd,
In a deep, labour'd cry, "Ye heavenly powers!
If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!"
Urging her still to bear them company. .
She lov'd to give them pleasure, and one time
(The fav'rite legend of our country folk
Hath oft the tale repeated) as they mix'd
Carelessly in the crowd, remember'd notes
Struck by a harper in a distant tent,
Sweet and soul-piercing as the midnight songs,
Which are, they say, the harbingers of death,
Flow'd on her car—when, with impulsive spring,
As if a magic spell had wing'd her feet,
Fearing the sounds wou'd vanish into air,
And prove delusion ere she reach'd the spot,
She forward rush'd, and soon beheld the friend,
The dear companion of her youth. She seiz'd
The hand that lay upon the quivering chords,
Stopping their melody and resting mute.
The pause was awfu'—He at length exclaim'd,
In a deep, labour'd cry, "Ye heavenly powers!
If Lora lives, the hand I feel is hers!"
