THE OLD HARPER'S SONG.=
Sound the harp! strike the lyre!—Ah! the Minstrel is
old;
The days of his harping are very nigh told;
Yet Shakspere, * sweet Shakspere! thy name shall expire
On his cold quiv'ring lips—Sound the harp! strike the
lyre!
Its music was thine when his harp he first strung,
And thou wert the earliest song that he sung;
Now feeble and trembling his hand sweeps the wire—
Be thine its last note!—Sound the harp I strike the
lyre!
I've wander'd where riches and poverty dwell;
With all but, the sordid, thy name was a spell.
Love, pity, and joy, in each bosom beat higher;
Rage, madness, despair I—Sound the harp! strike the lyre!
The scenes of thy triumphs are pass'd as a dream;
But still flows in beauty, sweet Avon—thy stream.
Still rises majestic that heaven-pointed spire,
Thy temple and tomb!—Sound the harp! strike the
lyre!”
* The Duke of Marlborough, on being asked in the house of a
titled lady from what history of England he was quoting,
answered, “the only one I have ever read—Shakspere!”
“Gentlemen,” said Uncle Timothy, and his eye glistened and his lip trembled, “the old minstrel must not depart hence without a full purse and a plentiful scrip. But first to bespeak him the best bed that this hostelrie affords, and compound a loving cup to warm his heart as he hath warmed ours. This chimney-corner shall be his harp's resting-place for the night, as perchance it hath been of many long since silent and unstrung.”
The middle-aged gentleman rose to usher in the minstrel; but paused as the harp and voice were again attuned, but to a livelier measure.