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'Tis passing sweet, when Music swells
With power and magic all her own,
To feel some loved remembrance dwells
Enshrined in every breathing tone;
With power and magic all her own,
To feel some loved remembrance dwells
Enshrined in every breathing tone;
And think our image too may rest
Embalmed in such sweet numbers' flow,
And rise o'er some still faithful breast,
Undimmed by absence, joy, or woe.
Embalmed in such sweet numbers' flow,
And rise o'er some still faithful breast,
Undimmed by absence, joy, or woe.
Perchance the wish may seem but vain,
Yet still to me the thought is dear,
From fond affection thus to claim
The meed of gentle Memory's tear.
Yet still to me the thought is dear,
From fond affection thus to claim
The meed of gentle Memory's tear.
Then oh! not yet ye numbers cease:
Breathe, breathe again that mournful air:
'Mid Nature's tears the how of Peace
In mellowed light is beaming there!
Breathe, breathe again that mournful air:
'Mid Nature's tears the how of Peace
In mellowed light is beaming there!
E.
May 8, 1533.
