My gentle harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumb'ring strain In
tears our last farewell was taken And nos in tears we meet again. Yet even then, while peace was singing, Her halcyon
song o'er land and sea, Though joy and hope to others bringing, She only brought new tears to thee.
Then who
can ask for notes of pleasure, My drooping harp, from chords like thine? Alas, the lark's gay morning measure As
ill would suit the swan's decline. Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee, Invoke thy breath for freedom's strains, When
e'en the wreaths in which I dress thee, Are sadly mixed, half flours, half chains.
|