The fair Isabel of Cotehele a Cornish romance, in six cantos. By the author of Local attachment, and translator of Theocritus [i.e. Richard Polwhele] |
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The fair Isabel of Cotehele | ||
XXXIII.
SONG.
1
“Dear to the soul of her who grievesThe lute's lov'd tones melodious part!
Each soft and liquid cadence leaves
A sweetness lingering o'er the heart.
60
2
But when we feel the expression lostIn the rude winds, we grieve again;
In that cold pause lamenting most
That all the muse's aid was vain.
3
In vain, alas! would every airResponsive to my vocal breath,
Its sorrows to my parent bear
Along the dull drear vault of death.
4
Yet, could I deem, dear parted friend!Could deem thy spirit hovering nigh,
That thought to every chord would lend
Delight—a charm to every sigh.
5
Then should I think my wild notes sweetTho' to the gale that chills me, giv'n,
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Wafted by thee, the harps of Heaven!”
There was no want of tinkling lute,
Whilst, its feebler strings to suit,
Her soul was in each touching tone—
Her every accent, nature's own.
Whilst, its feebler strings to suit,
Her soul was in each touching tone—
Her every accent, nature's own.
The fair Isabel of Cotehele | ||