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Harp of the North Farewell!

 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 nature’s vespers blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy’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 life’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.
— That I o’erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string! ’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, ’Tis now the brush of Fairy’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 spell— And now, ’tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!

by Sir Walter Scott
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