(Occasioned by hearing a pathetic air played on the Flute.)
Oh! cease, sweet Minstrel, cease to play,
My eyes with tears are filling fast;
I see life’s pleasures fade away,
I feel misfortune’s coldest blast.
Thy witching strain is sad and sweet,
I cannot bear its melting sound;
It tells of joys that passed too fleet,
And early loves in sorrow drowned.
I see the ranks of early years
Like awful spectres pass along;
I see a dismal lake of tears,
I hear lost Hope’s expiring song.
Then cease, Musician! cease to play,
My heavy heart is filled with grief;
And every note but seems to say—
The world for me has no relief.