For him who struck thy foreign string, I ween this heart has ceased to care； Then why dost thou such feelings bring To my sad spirit——old Guitar？

    It is as if the warm sunlight In some deep glen should lingering stay, When clouds of storm, or shades of night, Have wrapt the parent orb¹ away.

    It is as if the glassy brook² Should image still its willows³ fair, Though years ago the woodman's stroke Laid low in dust their Dryad-hair.

    Even so, Guitar, thy magic tone Hath moved the tear and waked the sigh： Hath bid the ancient torrent⁴ moan, Although its very source is dry.