[ CANTO FIRST.]
THE CHASE.
Harp of the North![1] that moldering long hast hung
On the witch-elm[2] that shades St. Fillan’s[3] spring,
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,
Till envious ivy did around thee cling,
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,—
O minstrel Harp! still must thine accents sleep?
Mid rustling leaves and fountain’s murmuring,
Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,