Left hanging.

I found a piece of paper on the floor. As we have high standards re household orderliness I picked it up. Written on it, in blue ink and a small neat hand are the following words:
                                                               Mute is thy wild harp now O Bard Sublime
                                                               Who, amid Scotia's mountain solitude
                                                               Nature taught to build the lofty rhyme
                                                               And even beneath the daily pressure,rude
                                                               of the labouring poverty, thy generous 
                                                               blood fired with the love of freedom-- 
                                                               not subdued.
                                                               Wert thou by the low fortune But a time    
                                                               like this, when the abject chime
                                                               of
 And that was it. Another thing for me to chase up.