I strike--but lo, the wonted thrill,
Of joy in sorrowing cadence dies:
Alas! the minstrel's hand is chill,
And the sad lute, responsive, sighs.

'Tis ever thus--our life begins,
In Eden, and all fruit seems sweet--
We taste and knowledge, with our sins,
Creeps to the heart and spoils the cheat.

In youth, the sun brings light alone--
No shade then rests upon the sight--
But when the beaming morn is flown,
We see the shadows--not the light

I once found music every where--
The whistle from the willow wrung--
The string, set in the window, there,
Sweet measures to my fancy flung.

But now, this dainty lute is dead--
Or answers but to sigh and wail,
Echoing the voices of the fled,
Passing before me dim and pale!

Yet angel forms are in that train,
And One upon the still air flings,
Of woven melody, a strain,
Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings.