DESPONDENT.
(Occasioned by hearing a pathetic air played on the Flute.)
Oh! cease, sweet Minstrel, cease to play, My eyes with tears are filling fast; I see life’s pleasures fade away, I feel misfortune’s coldest blast.
Thy witching strain is sad and sweet, I cannot bear its melting sound; It tells of joys that passed too fleet, And early loves in sorrow drowned.
I see the ranks of early years Like awful spectres pass along; I see a dismal lake of tears, I hear lost Hope’s expiring song.
Then cease, Musician! cease to play, My heavy heart is filled with grief; And every note but seems to say— The world for me has no relief.