Constitutional Whig

For The Constitutional Whig.

To the Spirit of the Eolian Harp.
Sweet minstrel, to whose in magic art,
The enrapturing power is given,
To steal away from earth the heart,
And yield it up to heaven,
Say, art thou not a holy thing,
That thus with fairy fingers,
To rapture wak'st each sleeping string.
Where sound ecstatic lingers
Thy strain is not the voice of mirth,
'Tis ever fraught with folly,
Oh! 'tis too sweet for aught on earth,
Save holy melancholy.
For as it gently floats through air,
Upon the breath of even,
No sound of earth is mingled there.
It breathes alone of heaven.
It seems to speak of happier hours,
Of joys forever faded,
Of paradise bright, and strewed with flowers,
Bower, and by sorrow shaded.
Oh, angels themselves might not disdain,
Thy silver tones to borrow,
And mourn in thy own melting strain,
Man's doom of endless sorrow.