&quot;Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung<br />On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan&#39;s spring<br />And down the fitful breeze thy numbers flung,<br />Till envious ivy did around thee cling,<br />Muffling with verdant ringlet every string,&mdash;<br />O Minstrel Harp, still must thine accents sleep?<br />Mid rustling leaves and fountains murmuring,<br />Still must thy sweeter sounds their silence keep,<br />Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid to weep?&quot;