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WRITTEN UNDER EXTREME DEPRESSION OF SPIRITS AT
A WINDOW IN WHICH WAS AN ÆOLIAN HARP.
THE Muse would softly wake some plaintive strain, To soothe the sorrows of the aching breast, To lull awhile the sense of mental pain, And bid fair Fancy lull each care to rest. Yet ah! in vain. Fancy with Joy is fled, I see her tresses waving in the wind: No more a fragrance shall those tresses shed, From wreaths I wont around her head to bind. The Muse desponding turns: denied her aid, To touch the lyre she pensive tries in vain. "But hark," she cries "soft sounds each sense invade; "'Tis mournful music of Æolian strain." Along the lyre the air with gentle sweep May with sweet Harmony some joy impart: Yet ah! such tones the Muse herself must weep, Form'd by the sighs that speak the bleeding heart.