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REAL SORROWS.
'Tis not the loud, obstreperous grief,
That rudely clamours for relief—
'Tis not the querulous lament,
In which impatience seeks a vent:—
'Tis not the soft, pathetic style,
Which aims our pity to beguile;
That can to truth's keen eye impart
The ' real sorrows' of the heart!
No !—'tis the tear in secret shed
Upon the starving infant's head;
The sigh that will not be repress'd
Breathed on the faithful partner's breast;
The bursting heart, the imploring eye
To heaven upraised in agony,
With starts of desultory prayer,
While hope is quenched in despair;
The throbbing temples' burning pain,
While phrenzy's fiend usurps the brain;
These are the traits no art can borrow,
Of genuine suff'ring and of sorrow !
That rudely clamours for relief—
'Tis not the querulous lament,
In which impatience seeks a vent:—
'Tis not the soft, pathetic style,
Which aims our pity to beguile;
That can to truth's keen eye impart
The ' real sorrows' of the heart!
No !—'tis the tear in secret shed
Upon the starving infant's head;
The sigh that will not be repress'd
Breathed on the faithful partner's breast;
The bursting heart, the imploring eye
To heaven upraised in agony,
With starts of desultory prayer,
While hope is quenched in despair;
The throbbing temples' burning pain,
While phrenzy's fiend usurps the brain;
These are the traits no art can borrow,
Of genuine suff'ring and of sorrow !
Music.
Oh lull me, lull me, charming air!
My senses reck with wonder sweet:
Like snow on wool, thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet.
Grief who need fear
That hath an ear?
My senses reck with wonder sweet:
Like snow on wool, thy fallings are;
Soft, like a spirit's, are thy feet.
Grief who need fear
That hath an ear?
