In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woful measures wan Despair
Low sullen sounds his grief beguil’d,
A sullen, strange, and mingled air,
’Twas sad by fits, by starts ’twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper’d promis’d pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!