Classic Poem

“Harper! Strike thy harp again!
Strike it loud and boldly,
Sing a song of the ice-bound North
Where the rushing winds blow coldly.
Yet 'tis long until the morn,
Sing! and look not so forlorn.”

Low the harper bent his head,
O'er the strings his fingers sped;
First but slowly, first but low
Struck the notes upon the ear,
Swelling louder—growing near—
Echoing there, and echoing here,
Through the hall they go.

Warbling to himself he lingered,
And the strings he idly fingered,
Lost in thoughts of other years.
Till wakened by the cries around him,
Breaking from the spell that bound him,
He began this song.