Page:Bijou Almanacks.pdf/7



Thy lute upon the Grecian ground Lies broken: let it lie; 'Twas worthy such funeral mound, 'Twas worthy of such sky.

Beside thy old Castilian groves It breathed its noblest words: The pine-woods and the ancient hills Attend its dying chords.

All nature owned its bitter spell, And answered to the tone; For in the sorrow of the strain Each heart recalled its own.