30
LINES.
The rock, that to the parching sand
Would yield no dewy drop,
Struck by the pilgrim prophet’s wand,
Gave all its treasures up.
Would yield no dewy drop,
Struck by the pilgrim prophet’s wand,
Gave all its treasures up.
My heart then, is my only lyre;
The prophet hath not spoken,
Nor kindled its celestial fire;
So, let its chords be broken.
The prophet hath not spoken,
Nor kindled its celestial fire;
So, let its chords be broken.
I would not thou shouldst hear those lays,
Though harsh they might not be;
Though thou, perchance, might’st hear and praise,
They would not speak of me.
Though harsh they might not be;
Though thou, perchance, might’st hear and praise,
They would not speak of me.
