Lx

He who can strike the golden strings Be highest honors given, For God has shewn you such great love That He sent him from heaven.

It’s dreadful when with barren fields And plague God means to punish, But greatest scorge visits the race From whom its songs do vanish.

That nation has not perished yet To whom its bards are singing: For all song is of heaven’s birth And life in death ’tis bringing.