“WHY, MINSTREL, THESE UNTUNEFUL MURMURINGS”

“Why, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings —

Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?”

“Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far

From its own country, and forgive the strings.”

A simple answer! but even so forth springs,

From the Castalian fountain of the heart,

The Poetry of Life, and all that Art

Divine of words quickening insensate things.

From the submissive necks of guiltless men

Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils;

Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils

Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then

Thatthe poor Harp distempered music yields

To its sad Lord, far from his native fields?