I touch not that harp,
Let it slumber alone;
For its notes but awaken
Sad memories of one
Whose hand often swept
The soft wires along,
And aroused them to music,
To love, and to song.
But Death, the destroyer,
Ere grief threw a ray
O'er her flowery path,
Snatched her rudely away;
And the harp that resounded,
With loveliest tone,
To her delicate touch,
Has since slumbered alone.
Then awake not a strain--
Let it still repose there,
And be breathed on alone
By the sweet summer air;
For its numbers though lively,
Though joyous and light,
But cast o'er my spirits
A wildering blight.