LOST SONGS.

Harp of my fathers—on the mouldering wall Of days forgotten—like a far-off wind Hushing the fir-wood at soft even-fall, Thy low-heard whispers to my heart recall The wistful songs, to Silence Old consigned, That Ossian sang when he was frail and blind.

Thy fitful notes from the melodious trees, I fain would echo in my feeble rhyme— The inner music quivering on the breeze I hear; and throbbing from the beating seas, On ancient shores, the wearied pulse of Time That mingles with thy melodies sublime.