There is a spirit caught among its wires
That sentient thrills as if with living fires,—
Frères! let me keep my lute.
It may not be? ah, well,—
Once more ere yet thou diest, O breathing string!
That plainest like the heart of sad sea-shell,
And talk'st to me with voice of living thing.
Sad now art thou and I—
Loved lute, ring out, ring out ere yet we die.
Ring out the clash of swords!