Though all unwont to bid in vain.
Alas! than mine a mightier hand
Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann’d!
I touch the chords of joy, but low
And mournful answer notes of woe;
And the proud march, which victors tread,
Sinks in the wailing for the dead.
Oh, well for me, if mine alone
That dirge’s deep prophetic tone!
If, as my tuneful fathers said,