It hath a power, though all unstrung
It lies neglected now;
And from her hands 't will ne'er be wrung,
Till death these limbs shall bow!
It hath no price since that sweet hour
She tuned it first, and played
Love's evening hymn with the bower
Her youthful fingers made.
A spirit like the summer's night
Hangs o'er that cherished lyre,
And whispers of the calm moonlight
Are trembling from the wire;
Still on my ear her young voice falls,
Still floats that melody,—
On each loved haunt its music calls,—
Go! leave that harp and me.