A harp was set that gave its tone
To every touch without control.
The zephyr stirred in childhood warm,
Thoughts like itself, as soft and blest;
And the swift fingers of the storm
Woke its own echo in my breast.
Aye, and the strings that else had lain
Untouched, and to myself unknown,
Within my heart, gave back the strain
That o'er the sea and rock was thrown.