One short, one final strain shall flow,
Fraught with unutterable woe,
Then shiver’d shall thy fragments lie,
Thy master cast him down and die!”
IX.
Soothing she answer’d him—"Assuage,
Mine honor’d friend, the fears of age;
All melodies to thee are known,
That harp has rung or pipe[95] has blown,
In Lowland vale or Highland glen,