Poetry Archives

O thou, who, ’mid the forest trees,
   With thy harmonious trembling strain,
Could’st change at once to soothing ease,
   My love-sick bosom’s cruel pain:
Thou droop’st in dreary silence now,
   With shiver’d frame, and broken string,
While here, unhelp’d, beneath the bough
   I sit, and feebly strive to sing.

The moon no more illumes the ground;
   In night and vapour dies my lay;
For with thy sweet and melting sound
   Fled, all at once, her silver ray:
O soon, O soon, shall this sad heart,
   Which beats so low, and bleeds so free,
O’ercome by its fell load of smart,
   Be broke, O ruin’d harp, like thee!