The Aeolian Harp

The land lies parched in sun,—to heaven the air is still, Hushed now upon the harp the golden strings' lost thrill; Aeolian harps our native singers are,—and numb Must be their heart, their dying life blood cease to flow, Forever silent be their voice, if longer dumb Their breath be suffocated in this sultry glow! O if a Genius on tempest-pinions winging, Stormed through our native land,—Spirit with freedom rife! How jubilant would our Aeolian harps be ringing To greet the Godly power that promises new life!