"Aunt has just come in, and has sent for me to her room. Kiss my dear father for me, and pray for me that I may be restored to you in safety.
Sing me that song again! A voice unheard by thee repeats the strain; And as its echoes on my fancy break, _Heart-strings_ and _harp-chords_ wake.
Sing to my viewless lyre! Each note holds mem'ries as the flint holds fire; And while my heart-strings in sweet concert play, Thought travels far away.
And back, on laden wings, The music of my better life it brings; For years of happiness, departed long, Are shrined in that old song.
Its cadence on my ear Falls as the night falls in the moonlight clear-- The darkness lost in Luna's glittering beams, As I am lost in dreams.
Sing on, nor yet unbind The chain that weaves itself about my mind-- A chain of images which seem to rise To life before my eyes.
The veil which hangs around The past is lifted by the breath of sound, As strong winds lift the dying leaves, and show The hidden things below.
I listen to thy voice, Impelled beyond the power of will or choice, And to those simple notes' mysterious chime, My rushing thoughts keep time
The key of harmony Has turned the rusted lock of memory, And opened all its secret stores to light, As by some wizard sprite.
But now the charm is past, My heart-strings are too deeply wrung at last, And harp-chords, stretched too far, refuse to play Longer an answering lay.
The music-spell is o'er! And that old song, oh, sing it nevermore It is so old, 'tis time that it should die! Forget it--so will I.
Let it in silence rest; Guarded by thoughts which may not be expressed There was a love which clung to it of old-- _That_ love has long been cold.
Then sing it not again! The voice that seemed to echo back the strain Has filled succeeding years with discords strange And won my heart to change
And thou mayst surely cull Songs new and sweet, and still more beautiful: Sing _new_ ones, then, to which no memories cling-- _Most_ memories have their sting.
Ancient authors disagree in the accounts they give of the dress of the first inhabitants of Britain. Some assert that, previously to the first descent of the Romans, the people wore no clothing at all: other writers, however (and, probably, with more truth), state that they clothed themselves with the skins of wild animals; and as their mode of life required activity and freedom of limb, loose skins over their bodies, fastened, probably, with a thorn, would give them the needful warmth, without in any degree restraining the liberty of action so necessary to the hardy mountaineer.