The Harp Of The Minstrel

The harp of the minstrel has never a tone         As sad as the song in his bosom to-night,     For the magical touch of his fingers alone         Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright;     But oh! as the smile of the moon may impart         A sorrow to one in an alien clime,     Let the light of the melody fall on the heart,         And cadence his grief into musical rhyme.     The faces have faded, the eyes have grown dim         That once were his passionate love and his pride;     And alas! all the smiles that once blossomed for him         Have fallen away as the flowers have died.     The hands that entwined him the laureate's wreath         And crowned him with fame in the long, long ago,     Like the laurels are withered and folded beneath         The grass and the stubble - the frost and the snow.     Then sigh, if thou wilt, as the whispering strings         Strive ever in vain for the utterance clear,     And think of the sorrowful spirit that sings,         And jewel the song with the gem of a tear.     For the harp of the minstrel has never a tone         As sad as the song in his bosom tonight,     And the magical touch of his fingers alone         Can not waken the echoes that breathe it aright.