Page:Twilight Hours (1868).djvu/71

 H the teazing, weary tune, That my fingers will not play ! Oh the worn-out, crazy harp ! Shall I fling it quite away ? No, poor harp, we are old friends, Comrades, till our journey ends. If ever a man was a madman, 'Twas he who essayed to rise From a pauper life to an artist life, 'Neath the fog of the English skies. What if the music within him Should struggle and pant to speak ?