Page:National Lyrics.pdf/242



"All is not lost—the unconquerable will And courage never to submit or yield."

The Hall of Harps is lone to-night. And cold the chieftain's hearth; It hath no mead, it hath no light, No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

The bow lies broken on the floor Whence the free step is gone; The pilgrim turns him from the door Where minstrel-blood hath stain'd the threshold stone.