The Sháïr; a Poem

Harp of my country ! Pride of yore ! Whose sweetest notes are heard no more ! O ! give me once to touch thy strings, Where tuneful sweetness ever clings. Though hands that far superior were Once waked the sleeping sweetness there ; Yet if my anty skill can make One note, however faint, awake, My weak endeavour will not be In vain ;— ‘tis all I wish from thee.