Is not all worth, all beauty, lost?
Ah, who’d have thought such sweetness clung
To loose neglected strings like those?
They answered to whate’er was sung,
And sounded as a lady chose.
Her pitying finger hurried by
Each vacant space, each slackened chord;
Nor would her wayward zeal let die
The music-spirit she restored.
The fashion quaint, the timeworn flaws,