’Tis well thou shouldst depart.
A sound of music, from amidst the hills,
Came suddenly, and died; a fitful sound
Of mirth, soon lost in wail. Again it rose,
And sank in mournfulness. There sat a bard
By a blue stream of Erin, where it swept
Flashing through rock and wood: the sunset’s light
Was on his wavy, silver-gleaming hair,
And the wind’s whisper in the mountain ash,
Whose clusters droop’d above. His head was bow’d,