POETRY. 731 



The weeping Minstrel sings, 



And while her numbers flow, 

 My spirit trembles with the strings, 



Responsive to the notes of woe. 



Would gladness move a sprightlier strain, 



And wake this wild Harp's clearest tones, 

 The chords, impatient to complain. 



Are dumb, or only utter moans. 



And yet to soothe the mind 



With luxury of grief, ' 



The soul to suffering all resign'd 



In sorrow's music feels relief. 



Thus o'er the light ^olian lyre 



The winds of dark November stray. 

 Touch the quick nerve of every wire, 



And on its magic pulses play ; — 



Till all the air around. 



Mysterious murmurs fill, 

 A strange bewildering dream of sound. 



Most heavenly sweet,— yet mournful still. 



O ! snatch the Harp from Sorrow's hand, 



Hope ! who hast been a stranger long ; 

 O ! strike it with sublime command, 



And be the Poet's life thy song. 



Of vanish'd troubles sing, 



Of fears for ever fled. 

 Of flowers that hear the voice of Spring, 



And burst and blossom from the dead ; 



Of home, contentment, health, repose. 



Serene delights, while years increase ; 

 And weary life's triumphant close 



In some calm sunset-hour of peace ;— 



Of bliss that reigns above, 



Celestial May of Youth, 

 Unchanging as Jehovah's love, 



And everlasting as His truth : — 



