The Harp of India

by Henry Louis Vivian Derozio Why hang’st thou lonely on yon withered bough? Unstrung for ever, must thou there remain; Thy music once was sweet — who hears it now? Why doth the breeze sigh over thee in vain? Silence hath bound thee with her fatal chain; Neglected, mute, and desolate art thou, Like ruined…