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Light is the spirit of my harp—
Twas love and hope first wak'd its strain;
Awhile sorrow's wings
May o'ershadow the strings—
They soon will answer to mirth again.
Oh! were it mine to choose the notes,
That should unto my harp belong,
They should be gay,
As the sky lark's lay,
With one sweet breath of the nightingale's song.
