Page:The Golden Violet.pdf/134

Rh and harsh the harp-strings rung, As rough the hand now over them flung; Loud as a warning, omen-like, drear, Sank the deep tones on each listener's ear, 'T was a Palmer, that seem'd from the Holy Land, That now sway'd the harp with his stern right hand; None around could discover his name, Nor tell whence that pilgrim minstrel came.

gone east, I have gone west, To seek for what I cannot find; A heart at peace with its own thoughts, A quiet and contented mind.