As if from thence 'twere loath to part,
Like memories of the one most dear
Still fondly clinging to the heart.
At last it fell, they heard it not:
It died so like a spirit's sigh
That Echo's faithful self forgot
To make her farewell, faint reply.—
And see a minstrel now appears
Familiar quite with griefs and tears.
Although his gifted eye hath shone
But few short years the world upon
So many turns of fate to know—
That eye is eloquent of woe!
Alas! alas! the poet's doom—
O! say not that his doom is bright—
His heart's a taper in a tomb
Flinging around sepulchral light:
The proud, the cold, the careless eye,
That will not fix on genius high,
Has power the minstrel's pangs to wake,
And his enthusiast spirit break—
Then deem him not by fortune blest,
Child of the bleeding heart and breast.
The bard all meekly bent his brow,
Then o'er the keys of memory ran
To try if they were faithful now—
Then bowed again, and thus began.—