Tell what he was, and still employ his care.

With thin white hand, that trembles at its task,

In vain he strives to bind the broken chords,

And to their primal melody attune them;--

In vain,--for to his efforts still replies

A boding strain of harsh, discordant sound.

And then, with hot tears coursing down his cheeks,

He lifts his faded wreath from his pale brow,