On the Aeolian Harp

Sweet Zephyr leave th' enamel'd plain, And hither wave thy gentle wing; Would'st thou out-rival Orpheus' strain, O haste and touch this trembling string.

The balmy-breathing power obeys,— 'Tis his my slender harp to claim; He comes, and o'er its bosom plays, And rapture wakes the slender frame!

The tender, melting notes of love, The soul in soothing murmurs steal; Low as the languor-breathing dove, That, lonesome, coos her plaintive tale.

Hark! what sounds of pleasing pain, Deep as some bleeding lovers lay, Sad as the cygnet's moving strain, When on the shore she dies away.

A nobler gale now sweeps the wire, The hollow frame responsive rings, Loud as when angels strike the lyre, Sweet as the heav'nly chorus sings.

And hark! the numbers roll along, Majestically smooth and clear, Like Philomel's enchanting song, The notes mellifluous pierce the ear.

Thus as the varying accents flow, Each passion feels th' accordant sound— This lifts the soul, that sinks it low, We seem to tread on fairy ground.