WRAPT in sad musings, by Euphrates' stream
I sat, retracing days for ever flown,
While rose thine image on the exile's dream,
O much-loved Salem! and thy glories gone.
When they, who caused the ceaseless tears I shed,
Thus to their captive spoke, "Why sleep thy lays?
"Sing of thy treasures lost, thy splendor fled,
"And all thy triumphs in departed days!
"Know'st thou not, Harmony's resistless charm
"Can soothe each passion, and each grief disarm?
"Sing then, and tears will vanish from thine eye."
With sighs I answered,—When the cup of woe
Is filled, till misery's bitter draught o'erflow,
The mourner's cure is not to sing,—but die.