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.