Yet once again, my Harp, yet once again One ditty more, and on the mountain ash I will again suspend thee. I have felt The warm tear frequent on my cheek, since last,
At eventide, when all the winds were hush'd, I woke to thee the melancholy song. Since then with Thoughtfulness, a maid severe, I've journey'd, and have learn'd to shape the freaks
Of frolic fancy to the line of truth; Not unrepining, for my froward heart Stills turns to thee, mine Harp, and to the flow Of spring-gales past — the woods and storied haunts
Of my not songless boyhood.— Yet once more, Not fearless, I will wake thy tremulous tones, My long-neglected Harp. He must not sink; The good, the brave — he must not, shall not sink
Without the meed of some melodious tear. Though from the Muse's chalice I may pour No precious dews of Aganippe's well, Or Castaly,— though from the morning cloud
I fetch no hues to scatter on his hearse: Yet will I wreathe a garland for his brows, Of simple flowers, such as the hedge-rows scent Of Britain, my loved country; and with tears
Most eloquent, yet silent, I will bathe Thy honour'd corse, my Nelson, tears as warm And honest as the ebbing blood that flow'd Fast from thy honest heart. Thou, Pity, too,
If ever I have loved, with faltering step, To follow thee in the cold and starless night, To the top-crag of some rain-beaten cliff; And, as I heard the deep gun bursting loud
Amid the pauses of the storm, have pour'd Wild strains, and mournful, to the hurrying winds, The dying soul's viaticum; if oft Amid the carnage of the field I've sate
With thee upon the moonlight throne, and sung To cheer the fainting soldier's dying soul, With mercy and forgiveness — visitant Of Heaven — sit thou upon my harp,
And give it feeling, which were else too cold For argument so great, for theme so high. How dimly on that morn the sun arose, ‘ Kerchief'd in mists, and tearful, when —
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