All the splendid furniture of his late residence had been sold except his wife's Harp. That, he said, was too closely associated with the idea of herself; it belonged to the little story of their loves; for, some of the sweetest moments of their courtship were those when he had leaned over that instrument, and listened to the melting tones of her voice. Irving's Sketch Book.
Go, leave that harp!—twined round its strings
There's many a magic spell:
Leave that untouched,—the strain it brings
This heart remembers well.
Let that remain!—all else beside
Go scatter to the wind!
The chords that won my home a bride
No other home shall find. It hath a power, though all unstrung
It lies neglected now;
And from her hands 't will ne'er be wrung,
Till death these limbs shall bow!
It hath no price since that sweet hour
She tuned it first, and played
Love's evening hymn with the bower
Her youthful fingers made.
A spirit like the summer's night
Hangs o'er that cherished lyre,
And whispers of the calm moonlight
Are trembling from the wire;
Still on my ear her young voice falls,
Still floats that melody,—
On each loved haunt its music calls,—
Go! leave that harp and me.