Page:Records of Woman.pdf/187

Rh And her pale arms dropp'd the ringing lyre, There came a mist o'er her eye's wild fire, And her dark rich tresses, in many a fold, Loos'd from their braids, down her bosom roll'd.

For her head sank back on the rugged wall,— A silence fell o'er the warrior's hall; She had pour'd out her soul with her song's last tone; The lyre was broken, the minstrel gone!