A Song

Music, thou queen of souls, get up and string
Thy powerful lute, and some sad requiem sing,
Till rocks requite thy echo with a groan,
And the dull cliffs repeate the duller tone.
Then on a sudden with a nimble hand
Run gently o'er the chords, and so command
The pine to dance, the oak his roots forgo,
The holm and aged elm to foot it too;
Myrtles shall caper, lofty ceadars run,
And call the courtly palm to make up one.
Then, in the midst of all their jolly train,
Strike a sad note, and fix 'em trees again.
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