ON A LADY,
PLAYING ON THE HARP—AN INFANT ASLEEP IN
THE CRADLE.
I
Why, have I asked, do painters give
Each muse and grace the female charm?
Mean they to make a goddess live?—
Or rather, mortal hearts to warm?
II
And, why do realms of heav'nly light
With golden harps so sweetly sound?
Those realms are regions pure and bright;
The music suits celestial ground.
III
Fair harper, o'er that various lyre
Still let thy fingers lightly move;
So shall each bosom glow with fire;
So melt with pity, or with love.
IV
But thou, sweet babe, art sunk in rest,
Unheedful of the charming strain:
Insensate is thy little breast,
Can taste no pleasure, feel no pain.
V
Nor dost thou heed thy father's smile;
Nor watch thy grandsire's wistful eyes.
Sleep on, blest infant!—yet awhile,
And thou shalt glow with kindred ties.
VI
Soon may thy generous bosom learn
To raise the heart, that droops with woe;
With Freedom's thrilling raptures burn,
With sacred love of country glow:
VIII
Soon mayst thou shew thy mother's face,
Attune her harp, and catch her eyes;
And, drest in every female charm,
Appear some angel from the skies.
