 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
THE HARP THAT I STRUNG.
The harp that I strung, when it woke at her touch,
How sweet were its chidings for broken repose!
The accent was plaintive, my feelings were such,
And a sigh would escape at each tremulous close.
It warbled like birds in a tropical grove,
Of scenes in the beauty of Eden arrayed;
It murmured of hope, and it whispered of love,
The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid.
How sweet were its chidings for broken repose!
The accent was plaintive, my feelings were such,
And a sigh would escape at each tremulous close.
It warbled like birds in a tropical grove,
Of scenes in the beauty of Eden arrayed;
It murmured of hope, and it whispered of love,
The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid.
The fingers of beauty were gracefully flung
O'er chords which they often had wakened to song,
And I knew by its tones 't was the harp that I strung,
So sadly, when struck, it complained of the wrong.
And such is the heart, when its slumbers have flown,
And anguish or rapture its fibres invade,
How much it resembles in feeling and tone
The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid.
O'er chords which they often had wakened to song,
And I knew by its tones 't was the harp that I strung,
So sadly, when struck, it complained of the wrong.
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And anguish or rapture its fibres invade,
How much it resembles in feeling and tone
The harp that I strung for the beautiful maid.
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |