On levelled lances, four and four, Before, at times, upon the gale, The harp's wild notes, though hushed the song, The mimic march of death prolong; Now seems it far, and now a-near, Now meets, and now eludes the ear; Now seems some mountain's side to sweep, Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, After due pause, they bade him tell, The aged Harper, howsoe'er Less liked he still that scornful jeer Misprized the land he loved so dear; High was the sound, as thus again The Bard resumed his minstrel strain. |