Why hang'st thou lonely on yon withered bough? <br />Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain; <br />Thy music once was sweet - who hears it now? <br />Why doth the breeze sigh over thee in vain? <br />Silence hath bound thee with her fatal chain; <br />Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou, <br />Like ruined monument on desert plain: <br />O! many a hand more worthy far than mine <br />Once thy harmonious chords to sweetness gave, <br />And many a wreath for them did Fame entwine <br />Of flowers still blooming on the minstrel's grave: <br />Those hands are cold - but if thy notes divine <br />May be by mortal wakened once again, <br />Harp of my country, let me strike the strain!<br /><br />Henry Louis Vivian Derozio<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-harp-of-india/
