Page:The West Indies, and Other Poems.djvu/95

 HARP OF SORROW.

I my Harp to Sorrow's hand, And she has ruled the chords so long, They will not speak at my command; They warble only to her song.

Of dear, departed hours, Too fondly loved to last, The dew, the breath, the bloom of flowers, Snapt in their freshness by the blast:—