For him who struck thy foreign string,
I ween this heart has ceased to care;
Then why dost thou such feelings
To my sad spirit—old Guitar?
It is as if the warm
In some deep glen should lingering stay,
When clouds of storm, or shades of night,
Have wrapt the parent orb away.
It is as if the glassy
Should image still its willows fair,
Though years ago the woodman's
Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.
Even so,
Guitar, thy magic
Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh:
Hath bid the ancient torrent moan,
Although its very source is dry.
