Extracts a sweet from ev'ry faded hour;--
From scenes long past, regardless of repose,
She feeds her tears, and treasures up her woes.
Thou tuneful, mute, companion[A] of my care!
Where now thy notes, that linger'd in the air?
That linger still!--Vain thy harmonious store,--
Thy sweet persuasive triumphs are no more.
Thy mournful image strikes my wand'ring eye;
Sad, near thy silent strings, I sit and sigh.
Cold is that band which Music form'd her own,
When ev'ry chord resign'd its sweetest tone.
Ah! long, fair source of rapture, shall thou rest,
Silent and sad, neglected and unprest,
'Till years, lov'd shade! superior pow'rs resign,
Or raise one note more eloquent than thine.
Tho' with'ring Sickness mark'd thee in the womb,
And form'd thy cradle but to form thy tomb,
Yet, like a flow'r, she bade thee reach thy prime,
The fairer victim for the stroke of Time.
When fond Invention vainly sought thine ease,
The wave salubrious and the morning breeze,--
When even Sleep, sweet Sleep! refus'd thy call,
Sleep! that with sweet refreshment smiles on all,--
When, till the morn, thine eyes, unclos'd and damp,
Trac'd thy sad semblance in the glimm'ring lamp,--
When from thy face Health's latest relic fled,
Where Hope might flatter, with reluctant tread,--
Still, darting forward from the weight of woe,
Thy soul with all its energy would glow;
Still with the purest passion wouldst thou prove