Why hang'st thou lonely on yon withered bough? br Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain; br Thy music once was sweet - who hears it now? br Why doth the breeze sigh over thee in vain? br Silence hath bound thee with her fatal chain; br Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou, br Like ruined monument on desert plain: br O! many a hand more worthy far than mine br Once thy harmonious chords to sweetness gave, br And many a wreath for them did Fame entwine br Of flowers still blooming on the minstrel's grave: br Those hands are cold - but if thy notes divine br May be by mortal wakened once again, br Harp of my country, let me strike the strain!br br Henry Louis Vivian Deroziobr br