What minstrel grey, what hoary bard,
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory's chief reward,
But who can strike a murd'rer's praise?
Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand,
No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
His harp in shuddering chords would break.
No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse,
Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father's bitter curse,
A brother's death-groan echoes there.
TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON.
Θέλω λέγειν Ἀτρείδας, κ.τ.λ.
TO HIS LYRE.
I wish to tune my quivering lyre,
- [The motto does not appear in Hours of Idleness or Poems O. and T.]
- I sought to tune ——.—[MS. Newstead.]