Faint, and more faint, loved lute, expires my lay,
And though my Lays have not been overwise
Yet now methinks with thee I best could pray.
Our mission now is o'er,
O Soul of Song! fly free! No more. No more.
Loved lute, farewell. Farewell with other things.
But though, for me, I henceforth am the Lord's,
No meaner hand shall ever touch thy chords—
Thus—thus—I rive thy strings!