A Song. The Lover . The Lute Of His Deceased Mistress.
Alas! but like a summer's dream
All the delight I felt appears,
While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
A ling'ring age of tears.
Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief my own.
All the delight I felt appears,
While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
A ling'ring age of tears.
Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief my own.
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