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Harp of the
North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
On purple
peaks a deeper shade descending;
In twilight copse
the glow-worm lights her spark,
The deer, half-seen,
are to the covert wending.
Resume thy wizard elm!
the fountain lending,
And the wild breeze, thy
wilder minstrelsy;
Thy numbers sweet with nature’s
vespers blending,
With distant echo from the fold
and lea,
And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of
housing bee.
Yet, once again, farewell, thou
Minstrel Harp!
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble
sway,
And little reck I of the censure sharp
May
idly cavil at an idle lay.
Much have I owed thy
strains on life’s long way,
Through secret woes the
world has never known,
When on the weary night
dawned wearier day,
And bitterer was the grief
devoured alone.—
That I o’erlive such woes,
Enchantress! is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering
footsteps slow retire,
Some spirit of the Air has
waked thy string!
’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch
of fire,
’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.
Receding now, the dying numbers ring
Fainter and
fainter down the rugged dell;
And now the mountain
breezes scarcely bring
A wandering witch-note of the
distant spell—
And now, ’tis silent
all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!
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