THE HARP BRINGETH JOY UNTO ME.

O autumn! to me thou art dearest, Thou bringest deep thoughts to me now, For the leaves in the forest are searest, And the foliage falls from each bough. And then as the day was declining, While nature was wont to repose, A sage on his harp was reclining Who sang of Lochaber's bravoes. He played and he sang of their glory, Their deeds which the ages admire; Then softly, then wildly, their story He told on the strings of his lyre. While praise on the heroes he lavished, And lauded their triumphs again, A maid came a-list'ning, enravished— Enrapt by his charming refrain. O! bright were the beams of her smiling, I sigh for the peace on her brow, Not a trace on her features of guiling, My heart singeth songs to her now. Inspired by the rapturous measure, This fair one skipt over the lea: One morning I sought the young treasure, Now dear as my soul she's to me.