 | The triumph of music |  |
Nameless fiend! whate'er thou art,
Hov'ring, hov'ring, o'er my heart!
Tho' I know thee not by name,
Yet I know thy certain aim,
Thus with loads of leaden pain
Crushing half my clouded brain!
'Tis thy office, tis thy joy,
Still to spoil, and still destroy,
This poor texture, till thy power
Triumph in its final hour:
Be it so, if Heaven's decree
Fashion'd it a prey for thee!
Hov'ring, hov'ring, o'er my heart!
Tho' I know thee not by name,
Yet I know thy certain aim,
Thus with loads of leaden pain
Crushing half my clouded brain!
'Tis thy office, tis thy joy,
Still to spoil, and still destroy,
This poor texture, till thy power
Triumph in its final hour:
Be it so, if Heaven's decree
Fashion'd it a prey for thee!
| The triumph of music | |