THE POET'S WREATH.
His brow was calm, no change was there,
No sigh had fill'd his breath;
Oh! did he wear that smile so fair
In slumber, or in death?
No sigh had fill'd his breath;
Oh! did he wear that smile so fair
In slumber, or in death?
"Reach down his harp," she wildly cried,
"And if one spark remain,
Let him but hear Loch Erroch's side;
He'll kindle at the strain.
"And if one spark remain,
Let him but hear Loch Erroch's side;
He'll kindle at the strain.
"That tune e'er held his soul in thrall,
It never breathed in vain;
He'll waken as its echoes fall,
Or never wake again."
It never breathed in vain;
He'll waken as its echoes fall,
Or never wake again."
The strings were swept; 'twas sad to hear
Sweet music floating there;
For every note call'd forth a tear
Of anguish and despair.
Sweet music floating there;
For every note call'd forth a tear
Of anguish and despair.
"See! see!" she cried, "the tune is o'er;
No opening eye, no breath:
Hang up his harp; he'll wake no more;
He sleeps the sleep of death."
No opening eye, no breath:
Hang up his harp; he'll wake no more;
He sleeps the sleep of death."
THE POET'S WREATH.
Jove said one day, he should like to know
What would part the Child of Song from his lyre;
And he summon'd his minions, and bade them go,
With all their bribes and powers, below;
Nor return till they wrought his desire.
What would part the Child of Song from his lyre;
And he summon'd his minions, and bade them go,
With all their bribes and powers, below;
Nor return till they wrought his desire.
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