A SONG.THE LOVERTHE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.Alas! but like a summer’s dreamAll the delight I felt appears,While mis’ry’s weeping moments seemA 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.
Alas! but like a summer’s dreamAll the delight I felt appears,While mis’ry’s weeping moments seemA 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.