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Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hungOn the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's springAnd down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung, Till envious ivy did around thee cling, Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, -O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring, Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep, Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, Was thy voice mute amid the festal crowd, When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, Aroused the fearful or subdued the proud.At each according pause was heard aloudThine ardent symphony sublime a

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