Alas! its strings, untuned, are mute,
Or only echo moan for moan.
The flowers around it twined are dead,
And those who wreathed them there, are flown;
The spring that gave them bloom is fled,
And winter's frost is o'er them thrown.
Poor lute! forgot 'mid strife and care,
I fain would try thy strings once more,—
Perchance some lingering tone is there—
Some cherished melody of yore.