I.
In the lone ancient pines of the Northland I stood,
When the sun-tinted eaves of the sky were aglow,
And I heard, from the soul of that vast solitude,
Dim notes from a Harp that broke mournfully low;
Oh sweet was the spell which that melody threw,
Till it seemed like the voice of a loved one that’s gone,—
Then I knew thee, dear Harp of my Country, I knew
The spirit that breathed in thy low plaintive tone!
II.
Then hushed were thy numbers, and heavy and chill
Was the silence that fell o’er the powerless soul;
Yet soft as the tears which the night dews instill,
And sweet as the dirges when mermaids condole;
Then I strove to recall that sad tone, but in vain,
When anon the vast woods, now all lonely and gray,
Returned the dim notes, and I caught but the strain,
As the last trembling echo died slowly away.