But where is she, whose voice had power
To rouse the war storm's awful might?
Glad eager footsteps seek her bower,
With tidings of the glorious fight;
On her loved harp her head is bowed,
One slender arm still round it clings,
And her dark tresses in a cloud,
Are clust'ring o'er the silent strings.
They clasp her hands, they call her name,
They bid her strike the harp once more,
And sing of victory, and fame,
The song she loved in days of yore.
Vain, vain, there comes no breath or sound
Those faded lips to sever,
The broken heart its rest hath found,
The harp is hushed for ever.
PART IV. THE HUMOROUS.
OLD MORGAN AND HIS WIFE.
BY THE REV. EVAN EVANS.
TRANSLATED BY T. W. HARRIS, ESQ., AND ANOTHER.
Hus.--Jane, tell me have you fed the pigs,
Their cry is not so fine:
And if you have not, don't delay,
'Tis nearly half-past nine.
Wife.--There, now your noisy din begins,
Ding, ding, and endless ding,
I do believe your scolding voice
Me to the grave will bring.
H.--Were you to drop in there to-day,
This day would end my sorrow.
W.--But I shall not to please you, Mog,
To-day, nor yet to-morrow.
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