On his cold quiv'ring lips—Sound the harp! strike the
lyre!
Its music was thine when his harp he first strung,
And thou wert the earliest song that he sung;
Now feeble and trembling his hand sweeps the wire—
Be thine its last note!—Sound the harp I strike the
lyre!
I've wander'd where riches and poverty dwell;
With all but, the sordid, thy name was a spell.
Love, pity, and joy, in each bosom beat higher;