IV.
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s died the sounds upon the tide,The shallop reached the mainland side,And ere his onward way he took,The stranger cast a lingering look,Where easily his eye might reachThe Harper on the islet beach,Reclined against a blighted tree,As wasted, gray, and worn as he.To minstrel meditation given,His reverend brow was raised to heaven,As from the rising sun to claimA sparkle of inspiring flame.His hand, reclined upon the wire,Seemed watching the awakening fire;So still he sat as those who waitTill judgment speak the doom of fate;So still, as if no breeze might dareTo lift one lock of hoary hair;So still, as life itself were fledIn the last sound his harp had sped.
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