 | The triumph of music |  |
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Appear'd that rare assylum to respect:
She oft flew by it, on a silent wing,
Convinc'd, that “sorrow is a sacred thing.”
And learning, in that refuge, to revere
The privacy of one, to nature dear,
Whose spirit tost on grief's tempestuous surge,
Had oft been driven to delirium's verge.
The blow, that first o'er-power'd Manfredi's mind,
Was so tremendous, of so dire a kind,
That, at his name, discourse was quick to turn
To awful pity, and a mute concern.
| The triumph of music | |