Where is the melody which lately flew,
Harp of my mother, round these strings unstrung?
Where are the svreet sounds nom her fingers drew
When wandering their shining lines among ?
Where is thy spirit ?—where thy music fled ?
Say, (like my mother) are they with the dead ?

I would awaken all thy joy again—
I fondly strive thy mirthful strain to move,
As if my trembling hand had caused thee pain—
Thou answerest sadly to my touch of love.
Harp of the beautiful, thy joy is fled—
Mournest thou forever for the lovely dead ?

The sun has set, but left his blessing here.
His farewell beam still trembles in the sky;
On Causen's snowy brow the moon shines clear,
Her light is on the field and turret high—
Her brightness gladdens lawn, and bower, and brake,
Harp of the beautiful—awake—awake—

An inarticulated melody
Dwelt in his yet unspoken thoughts ; and I
Love to go back again to boyish things,
And fancy what he felt ; for I have had
Feelings myself no words could e'er express ;
And these were with me long e'er I had power
To make rude record of my wayward thoughts.-
Nature prepares her ardent worshipper.
By long novitiate, before he takes
His stand beside her altar. Oft her gifts
Have lost their freshness e'er the eye of man
Discovers their existence—oft they die
With the warm heart which cherish 'd them, expire
Unclaiming mortal sympathy, the breath
Of that rude clamour which the world calls fame.
Unknown, unsought, unprized. His sweetest lays
The son of song oft utters in the dark
Like the imprisoned bul-bul over which
The fair Sultana flings her veil of snow,
That he may chant his melody unseen.
The youthful bard dwelt lonely in the woods ;
His young, fresh sensibilities uncheck'd,
But often misdirected, wildly grew
Into a wayward energy—The sports
Of childish years he never knew nor sought.
A darker brown fell on his auburn locks,
A wilder fire glow'd in his dark blue eye,
A riper tinge embronzed his ruddy cheek.
But life the while became an aimless dream.
Swift was his foot upon the flowery turf,
Yet chased he nothing but the thistle-down
Roaming abroad upon the fitful breeze.
Shouting he leap'd the dangerous waterfall,
Which with redoubled shouts he cross'd again.
Upon the plain he rein'd the unbroke steed
And dared him to rebellion ; yet he rode
In idle circles round the daisied field.
Then laugh'd to give him liberty again.
Yet in the midst of all this hoist'rous joy
The thoughtful mood fell on him, (like a cloud.
Or cloudy shadow on the river's foam
Sparkling and dashing down the cataract)
Then rush'd poetic feeling through his heart
And found a record from his youthful hand.

Among the woods there stands a ruin'd fane,
The chapel of St. Cuthbert ; there repose,
Forsaken in the forest solitude.
The heroes of the house of Avenel,
Or rather, dust of once heroic men.
The minstrel sat alone by Cuthbert's shrine
At evening tide, and rais'd his lonely song.
The sun was setting o'er the far off heights :
The southern tors grew dim, like evening clouds;
Shade after shade fell on the silent woods.
Until they slept envelop'd in the night.
The shattered emblems of his fathers' deeds.
Fallen from their monuments, were dimly seen
In the last glimmer of the feeble light.
His soul was fill'd with shadows of the past,
He prized, 'twas natural, liis fathers' fame.
Yet pondered on the praise of bloody deeds
And felt it was not glory ! Parted from
A nobler motive than the fame of fight.
It were the hero's everlasting; shame.
His harp was strung to bold chivalrous strain ;
Romantic fancy check'd by sager thought
Produced the lonely minstrel's first brief lay.