My senses doth confound!
It was the harp, and not the wind,
That did so sweetly sound."

Old Arno rose, all wan as death,
With broken steps of care;
And oft' he check'd his quick-heav'd breath,
And turn'd his eager ear.

When like a full, but distant choir
The swelling sound return'd;
And with the soft and trembling wire,
The sighing echoes mourn'd.

Then softly whisper'd o'er the song
Which Marg'ret lov'd to play,
Like some sweet dirge, and sad, and long,
It faintly died away.

His dim-worn eyes to heav'n he cast,
Where all his griefs were known;
And smote upon his troubled breast,
And heav'd a heavy groan.

"I know it is my daughter's hand,
But 'tis no hand of clay:
And here a lonely wretch I stand,
All childless, bent, and grey.

"And art thou low, my lovely child?