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     38. TO HIS LUTE.

     My lute, be as thou wert when thou did'st grow
     With thy green mother in some shady grove,
     When immelodious winds but made thee move,
     And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.

     Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
     Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
     Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
     What art thou but a harbinger of woe?

     Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
     But orphan's wailings to the fainting ear;
     Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
     For which be silent as in woods before:

     Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
     Like widow'd turtle still her loss complain.

     W. DRUMMOND.