184
ON HEARING MOURNFUL MUSIC.
Sweet minstrel of the harp of woe! Whoe'er thou art that pour'st the strain,Such sweetness in thy numbers flow, Say, can the source be real pain?
Methinks, as on my pensive ear The dulcet harp's wild wailings flow,I mark the frequent gushing tear Stream o'er the pallid cheek of woe.
Bard of the lyre of mournful sound! Oh! give that mournful lyre to me,And when pale ev'ning steals around, My sad companion it shall be.
Then, seated by some murm'ring stream, Beneath some old tree's ample shade,To paint some sad and mournful dream I'll court thy harp's melodious aid.
Since hope again from heav'n descends, And from thy bosom drives despair,And bright each waking morn attends— Be mine alone the Harp of Care.
