 | Poems |  |
59
THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP.
When youthful transport led the hours,
And all my way was bright with flowers,
Ah! then my harp, thy dulcet note,
To songs of joy would lightly float;
To thee I sung in numbers wild,
Of hope and love who gaily smil'd.
And all my way was bright with flowers,
Ah! then my harp, thy dulcet note,
To songs of joy would lightly float;
To thee I sung in numbers wild,
Of hope and love who gaily smil'd.
And now tho' young delight is o'er,
And golden visions charm no more;
Tho' now my harp, thy mellow tone,
I wake to mournful strains alone;
Ah! yet the pleasing lays impart
A pensive rapture to my heart.
And golden visions charm no more;
Tho' now my harp, thy mellow tone,
I wake to mournful strains alone;
Ah! yet the pleasing lays impart
A pensive rapture to my heart.
I sung to thee of early pleasures,
In sweet and animated measures;
And I have wept o'er griefs and cares,
And still have lov'd thy magic airs:
To me thy sound recals the hours,
When all my way was bright with flowers.
In sweet and animated measures;
And I have wept o'er griefs and cares,
And still have lov'd thy magic airs:
To me thy sound recals the hours,
When all my way was bright with flowers.
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