THE BROKEN HARP.
They tell me that I sing no more As once I sung in olden time;That broken is the harp of yore, And vanished are its notes sublime.Ah! could they read within my soul The saddened numbers swelling there,The bitter pangs that spurn control And fill my being with despair,They would not wonder that my harp Lies broken now beneath my feet,Or that my grief should render sharp The notes that once were low and sweet.
But, ah! the world may never sweep The chords that thrill within my heart;Its music lies too still and deep; It slumbers, but can ne'er depart.Could I but dip a magic quill In sources of Promethean fire,
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