As died the sounds upon the tide, The shallop reached the mainland side, And ere his onward way he took, The stranger cast a lingering look, Where easily his eye might reach The Harper on the islet beach, Reclined against a blighted tree, As wasted, gray, and worn as he.
To minstrel meditation given, His reverend brow was raised to heaven, As from the rising sun to claim A sparkle of inspiring flame.
His hand, reclined upon the wire, Seemed watching the awakening fire;So still he sat as those who wait Till judgment speak the doom of fate;So still, as if no breeze might dare To lift one lock of hoary hair;So still, as life itself were fled In the last sound his harp had sped.
