“Thou art wearin’ awa’, Jean,
Like snaw when it’s thaw, Jean;
Thou art wearin’ awa’
To the land o’ the leal.”
O the impassable sorrow, mother mine!
Of the sweet, mournful air which, clear and well,
For me thou singest! Never the divine
Mahomedan harper, famous Israfel,
Such rich enchanting luxury of woe
Elicited from all his golden strings!
Therefore, dear singer sad! chant clear, and low,
And lovingly, the bard’s imaginings,
O poet unknown! conning thy verses o’er
In lone, dim places, sorrowfully sweet;
And O musician! touching the quick core
Of pity, when thy skilful closes meet—
My tears confess your witchery as they flow,
Since I, too, _wear_ away like the enduring snow.