XXIX. Full well the conscious maiden guessed For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, From thee may Vengeance claim her dues, Who, nurtured underneath our smile, Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's long way, That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own. Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spell And now, 't is silent all! Enchantress, fare thee well! |