Classic Poem

Oh , warble not that fearful air!
For sweet and sprightly though it be,
It wakes in me a deep despair
By its unhallow'd gaiety.

It was the last my Fanny sung,
The last enchanting playful strain,
That breathed from that melodious tongue,
Which none shall ever hear again.

From Memory's fount what pleasures past
At that one vocal summons flow;
Bliss which I vainly thought would last—
Bliss which but deepens present woe!

Where art thou, Fanny! can the tomb
Have chill'd that heart so fond and warm,—
Have turn'd to dust that cheek of bloom—
Those eyes of light—that angel form?

Ah no! the grave resigns its prey:
See, see! my Fanny's sitting there;
While on the harp her fingers play
A prelude to my favourite air.

There is the smile which ever bless'd
The gaze of mine enamour'd eye—
The lips that I so oft have press'd
In tribute for that melody.

She moves them now to sing!—hark, hark!
But ah! no voice delights mine ears:
And now she fades in shadows dark;—
Or am I blinded by my tears?

Stay yet awhile, my Fanny, stay,
Nor from these outstretch'd arms depart;—
'Tis gone! the vision 's snatch'd away!
I feel it by my breaking heart.

Lady, forgive this burst of pain,
That seeks a sad and short relief,
In coining from a 'wilder'd brain
A solace for impassion'd grief.

But sing no more that fearful air,
For sweet and sprightly though it be,
It wakes in me a deep despair,
By its unhallow'd gaiety.