For that poor, withering heart, resign
The warm, devoted faith of mine!

"Have I, too, an allotted task?
What from the Minstrel do they ask?
A nimble finger o'er the chords,
A tongue replete with gracious words!
Alas! the tribute they require,
Truth, sudden impulse, should inspire;
And from the senseless, subject lyre,
Such fine and mellow music flow,
The skill that forms it should not know
Whence the delicious tones proceed;
But, lost in rapture's grateful glow,
Doubt its own power, and cry, 'Indeed,
Some passing angel sweeps the strings,
Wafting from his balsamic wings
The sweetest breath of Eden bowers,
Tones nurs'd and hovering there in flowers,
Have left their haunts to wander free,
Linger, alight, and dwell on thee!'

"In Osvalde's porch, where, full in bloom,
The jasmine spread its rich perfume;
And, in thick clustering masses, strove
To hide the arch of stone above;
While many a long and drooping spray
Wav'd up, and lash'd the air in play;
Was I ordain'd my harp to place,
The pair with bridal strains to grace.