Float like the breathings of some heavenly dream—
Are tuneless music to a weary heart.
And thou, my harp—last solace! though thy notes
Are dear to him who wakes them—though the wild,
Sad melody thou utterest brings back
The visions of my youth and all I loved;
Yet soon the hand that trembles o’er thee now
Shall strike thy chords no more;—withered and rent,
Like me, thou’lt lie neglected—rudely swept
By stern and wintry winds, or crushed beside