Harp of my fathers—on the mouldering wall
Of days forgotten—like a far-off wind
Hushing the fir-wood at soft even-fall,
Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recall
The wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned,
That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind.

Thy fitful notes from the melodious trees,
I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme—
The inner music quivering on the breeze
I hear; and throbbing from the beating seas,
On ancient shores, the wearied pulse of Time
That mingles with thy melodies sublime.