And wilt thou, little one, bestow
The minstrel's small request?
Wilt come when cares of earth below
Press on his aching breast?

'Tis the minstrel's own
To kneel at the throne
Of Him who reigns in the heavens alone;--
The grief of the soul
'Tis His to control,
Who bids in the azure the planets roll.

His couch when balmy slumber flies,
In watches of the night,
Wilt, soother, come, and close his eyes,
And make his sorrows light?

I cannot come
From my sea-deep home,
Whene'er I list on the earth to roam:
Who rules in the form
Of the ocean-storm
His will must the rain-drop, too, perform.

Thy gentle prattle at the pane
Makes timorous Fancy smile:
Then let me hear that tender strain;
Blithe charmer, stay a while.