Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with natureâ€™s vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boyâ€™s evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.
Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp! Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on lifeâ€™s long way, Through secret woes the world has never known, When on the weary night dawned wearier day, And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.â€” That I oâ€™erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string! â€™Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, â€™Tis now the brush of Fairyâ€™s frolic wing. Receding now, the dying numbers ring Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell; And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring A wandering witch-note of the distant spellâ€” And now, â€™tis silent all!â€”Enchantress, fare thee well!