A harp, untouched these many years. 
His soul once more to music wakes, 
Swept by the wind that bends the grass 
And stirs the meadow brakes. 
And with him down the orchard path. 
Past spring-house and the pasture wall. 
Her spirit walks who taught her child 
Of the Love that is o'er all. 
The vision vanishes, and straight 
The street's rude tumult in his ears ; 
But in his heart a heavenly strain. 
And in his eyes sweet tears. 
II 
