VII.
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he minstrel waked his harp,--three timesArose the well-known martial chimes,And thrice their high heroic prideIn melancholy murmurs died.'Vainly thou bidst, O noble maid,'Clasping his withered hands, he said,'Vainly thou bidst me wake the strain,Though all unwont to bid in vain.Alas! than mine a mightier handHas tuned my harp, my strings has spanned!I touch the chords of joy, but lowAnd mournful answer notes of woe;And the proud march which victors treadSinks in the wailing for the dead.O, well for me, if mine aloneThat dirge's deep prophetic tone!If, as my tuneful fathers said,This harp, which erst Saint Modan swayed,Can thus its master's fate foretell,Then welcome be the minstrel's knell.'
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