The Last Song

Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Again its lonely numbers pour;
Then let the melancholy strain
Be hush'd in death for evermore.
For evermore, for evermore,
Creative fancy, be thou still;
And let oblivious Lethe pour
Upon my lyre its waters chill.
Strike the wild harp yet once again!
Then be its fitful chords unstrung,
Silent as is the grave's domain,
And mute as the death-moulder'd tongue;
Let not a thought of memory dwell
One moment on its former song;
Forgotten, too, be this farewell,
Which plays its pensive strings along!
Strike the wild harp yet once again!
The saddest and the latest lay;
Then break at once its strings in twain,
And they shall sound no more for aye:
And hang it on the cypress tree:
The hours of youth and song have pass'd,
Have gone, with all their witchery;
Lost lyre! these numbers are thy last.