When no gentle eyebeam charms;
No fond hope the bosom warms;
Of thinking the lone mind is tired,—
Naught seems bright to be desired.
Music, be thy sails unfurled;
Bear me to thy better world;
O'er a cold and weltering sea,
Blow thy breezes warm and free.
By sad sighs they ne'er were chilled,
By sceptic spell were never stilled.