Prelude

In the lone ancient pines of the Northland I stood, When the sun-tinted eaves of the sky were aglow, And I heard, from the soul of that vast solitude, Dim notes from a Harp that broke mournfully low; Oh sweet was the spell which that melody threw, Till it seemed like the voice of a loved one that’s gone,— Then I knew thee, dear Harp of my Country, I knew The spirit that breathed in thy low plaintive tone!

Then hushed were thy numbers, and heavy and chill Was the silence that fell o’er the powerless soul; Yet soft as the tears which the night dews instill, And sweet as the dirges when mermaids condole; Then I strove to recall that sad tone, but in vain, When anon the vast woods, now all lonely and gray, Returned the dim notes, and I caught but the strain, As the last trembling echo died slowly away.