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In childhood's dawn, or youth's delusive day,
Would sooth that grief and charm those tears away.
This was the voice that lull'd the ear of pain,
Made penury and anguish smile again;
Soft as the dew, that heals the broken plant,
Pour'd its mild accents on the soul of want;
Bade pale regret its wild complainings cease,
And lur'd the wanderer to the fold of peace.
Now like a harp, whose tuneful chords unstrung,
Is on the damp and drooping willow hung,
It gave in echoes to the fitful wind,
The mournful music of a broken mind.
Yet as the bird, whose sweet and dirge-like strains,
With harmony unwonted fill the plains,
Who by some presage warn'd of fate's decree,
Pours her soft tones in dying melody;*[1]
So on my ear, that midnight music fell,
As from the death-tow'r, sounds the long and last farewell.
While faint and low the closing murmur sigh'd,
And on the ear of night, the cadence dy'd,
The boding spirit sunk, with woe distrest,
And down the check, the floods of sorrow prest;
- ↑ * The Swan.
