L'Envoi

                              I.
               Spirit of Song! farewell!
Dear Harp! the solace of my darker days—
     Thy chords no longer shall responsive swell
To lay, or legend, psalm, or song of praise!
               I tear thy quivering strings,
With hand reluctant, one by one, apart,
And listen with wet eye and sorrowing heart,
     To thy last melancholy murmurings.

                              II.
               For even in the bright
Glad hours of Childhood, ere the hand of Care
     Had touched my forehead, thou wert my delight—
As seraph-songs that float upon the air
               Amid the twilight dim,
Seemed thy low music to my listening ear;
While in thy faintest notes my soul could hear,
     With solemn joy, Life’s everlasting hymn!

                              III.
               Nor Passion, Lust, nor Pride,
With touch unholy hath profaned thy chords—
     Of love, of faith, of courage sanctified
By deeds of mercy—of divine rewards
               Kept for the pure—thy themes
Have been of these—and oh! have not thy tones
Sunk upon human hearts like benisons,
     Or the sweet whispers Childhood hears in dreams?

                              IV.
               Rapine—Convulsion—War—
The pomp and tinsel of unrighteous Power—
     Bloated Oppression, yoking to his car
Immortal men, and rampant to devour
               The widow’s, orphan’s mite—
Oh Harp! thou had’st no triumph-song for these—
No chant sublime to tell their victories,
     In desolation traced, and wo, and blight!

                              V.
               But for the poor and lowly—
The hopeless—homeless—for the bleeding slave—
     The broken heart to cheer with comforts holy—
To lift the mourner’s eye above the grave,
               And fix its gaze on Heaven,
Thy chords have thrilled responsive to my song—
For Truth, for Right, in stern rebuke of Wrong,
     Clear, bold, untremulous, hath thy voice been given!

                              VI.
               Yet may I wake no more
Thy latent melody—Dear Harp! farewell!
     Youth’s hopes and Fancy’s dream alike are o’er—
No more with me the Poet’s visions dwell.
               Thy chords are torn apart,
Oh never more to thrill to touch of mine—
Yet haply, Harp! these gentle strains of thine
     May linger long in many a loving heart!