XXXIX. AFFLICTIONS OF ENGLAND. HARP! could'st thou venture, on thy boldest string, The faintest note to echo which the blast Caught from the hand of Moses as it past O'er Sinai's top, or from the Shepherd King, Of dread Jehovah; then, should wood and waste Off to the mountains, like a covering Of which the Lord was weary. Weep, oh! weep, I. I SAW the figure of a lovely Maid Seated alone beneath a darksome Tree, Set off her brightness with a pleasing shade. But while I gazed in tender reverie (Or was it sleep that with my Fancy played?) Of dissolution, melted into air. |