Canto first.
The Chase.
Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung
On the witch-elm that shades Saint
Fillan’s spring
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee
cling,
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,—
O Minstrel Harp, still must thine
accents sleep?
Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their
silence keep,
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?
Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon,
Was thy voice mute amid the festal
crowd,
When lay of hopeless love, or glory won,
Aroused the fearful or subdued the
proud.
At each according pause was heard aloud
Thine ardent symphony sublime and
high!
Fair dames and crested chiefs attention bowed;
For still the burden of thy minstrelsy
Was Knighthood’s dauntless deed, and Beauty’s
matchless eye.
O, wake once more! how rude soe’er the hand
That ventures o’er thy magic
maze to stray;
O, wake once more! though scarce my skill command
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier
lay:
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die away,
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain,
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway,
The wizard note has not been touched
in vain.
Then silent be no more! Enchantress, wake again!
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