For white-rob’d charity, borne by the breeze along,
Heard and approv’d the sympathizing song.
Those early joys, alas! are o’er,
For fate’s barb’d arrows struck my soul;
Pale sorrow does my bosom gore,
And anguish all my mind controul:
My heart’s unstrung, no more can music charm,
Nor mirth nor pleasure my cold bosom warm;
For melancholy’s poison to me clings,
And sorrow’s dark veil’d mantle round me flings: