Mary E. Brooks

COME sweep the harp! one thrilling rush

Of all that warm’d its chords to song,

And then the strains for ever hush,

That oft have breathed its wires along:

The ray is quench’d that lit our mirth,

The shrine is gone that claim’d the prayer,

And exiles o’er the distant earth,

How can we wake the carol there?

One sigh, my harp! and then to sleep,

For all that loved thy song have flown,

Why shouldst thou lonely vigils keep,

Forsaken, broken, and alone?

Let this sad murmur be thy last,

Nor e’er again in music swell;

Thine hours of joyousness are past,

And thus we sever; fare thee well!