O let thy wounds bleed on, and let
Thy tears for ever flow unbidden—
In sorrow revels secret joy,
And a sweet balm in tears is hidden.
If strangers’ hand did wound thee not,
Thou by thyself must needs be wounded;
Thank God with all thy heart, if tears
To wet thy cheek have e’er abounded.
The noise of day is hush’d, and night
In long dark mantle comes from heaven;
While in her arms, nor fool nor dolt
Can break the rest to soothe thee given.
Here thou art safe from music’s noise,
And from the piano’s hammer-hammer,
From the grand opera’s pompous notes,
And the bravura’s fearful clamour.
Here thou art not pursued, nor plagued
By endless crowds of idle smatt’rers;
Nor by the genius Giacomo,
And all the clique of world-known chatt’rers.
O grave, thou art the Paradise
Of ears that shun the rabble’s chorus;
Death’s good indeed, yet better ’twere
Our loving mothers never bore us.