There in the dusky alcove of the room,
Perchance forgotten by its owner now,
Silent beneath its covering of dust,
The harp was seen.
How many a song was slumbering in its strings,
As in some bird-breast sleeping on the boughs,
Waiting the snowy hand whose master touch
Shall waken it!
Alas, methought — how often genius halts
And drowses thus within the bosom's depth,
Hoping to hear a voice, like Lazarus,
To say its message, — " Soul, arise and walk! "