“WHY, MINSTREL, THESE UNTUNEFUL MURMURINGS”
“WHY, Minstrel, these untuneful murmurings– Dull, flagging notes that with each other jar?” “Think, gentle Lady, of a Harp so far From its own country, and forgive the strings.” A simple answer! but even so forth springs, From the Castalian fountain of the heart, The Poetry of Life, and all ‘that’ Art Divine of words quickening insensate things. From the submissive necks of guiltless men Stretched on the block, the glittering axe recoils; 10 Sun, moon, and stars, all struggle in the toils Of mortal sympathy; what wonder then That the poor Harp distempered music yields To its sad Lord, far from his native fields? 1827.