The harp stands neglected;—she's gone, whose light fingers
Awoke from its strings the soul-melting strain;
Touch—touch its still cords,—in their echo e'en lingers
A spell that can woo back her spirit again.
Like the harp; sweetest spirit! thou'st been my fond treasure,
But like its wild notes, thou hast flitted away,
Oh! could my sad soul like the tones of that measure,
As softly—as sweetly to heaven die away.
Anon.
