My harp must sound with diff’rent tone:
Oft from the lay sweet echoes spring,
As from the little bird in spring,
When, flutt’ring through the beechen grove,
He fills the air with notes of love.
Oft too its tones the ear assail
With sound as harsh as that of whale,
When he, through ice-bergs struggling, blows
And snorts amain with giant throes.
Like foam, the words then hurried fly,