The Harp of India by Henry Derozio
Why hang’st thou lonely on
yon withered bough?
Unstrung for
ever, must thou there remain;
Thy music once
was sweet – who hears it now?
Why doth the
breeze sigh over thee in vain?
Silence hath
bound thee with her fatal chain;
Neglected, mute,
and desolate art thou,
Like ruined
monument on desert plain:
O! many a hand
more worthy far than mine
Once thy
harmonious chords to sweetness gave,
And many a
wreath for them did Fame entwine
Of flowers still
blooming on the minstrel’s grave:
Those hands are
cold – but if thy notes divine
May be by mortal
wakened once again,
Harp of my
country, let me strike the strain!
No comments:
Post a Comment
looking forward your feedbacks in the comment box.