The minstrel waked his harp,--three times Arose the well-known martial chimes, And thrice their high heroic pride In melancholy murmurs died.

'Vainly thou bidet, O noble maid,'

Clasping his withered hands, he said, 'Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain, Though all unwont to bid in vain.

Alas! than mine a mightier hand Has tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!

I touch the chords of joy, but low And mournful answer notes of woe;And the proud march which victors tread Sinks in the wailing for the dead.

O, well for me, if mine alone That dirge's deep prophetic tone!

If, as my tuneful fathers said, This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed, Can thus its master's fate foretell, Then welcome be the minstrel's knell '