They hovered around her, an angel band:
They listened her notes to hear.
The voice was one of their own bright land;
But stained was the harp in their sister's hand,
With marks of the falling tear.
They saw she had wreathed it with deathless flowers;
While many a beauteous leaf,
That looked like the growth of their heavenly bowers,
Was pale with the shade of her darksome hours,
Or wet with the dews of grief.
Then gently from under her hand they took
Her harp, and laid it aside:
The tremulous chords, at her parting look
And the farewell sweep of her fingers, shook,
And snapped as her numbers died.
The angels had whispered of joys above,
And wooed her with them to soar,
Till spreading her wings like a peaceful dove,
Her spirit arose for a world of love
To wander on earth no more.
BRITANNIA, drop thy heaviest tear!
O weep! it will be forgiven,
That, fain we had kept in her bondage here
A soul so pure, and a voice so dear
Had longer withheld from heaven.