166
TO A FRIEND.
If o’er the wind harp’s gentle strings
The threatening tempest rudely flies,
It does not wake more thrilling strains—
The chords are rent, the music dies.
The threatening tempest rudely flies,
It does not wake more thrilling strains—
The chords are rent, the music dies.
Thus is my harp, thus is my song—
I woo in vain its sweetness fled,
The storms have swept the chords too long,
The music of my soul is dead.
I woo in vain its sweetness fled,
The storms have swept the chords too long,
The music of my soul is dead.
