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STANZAS WRITTEN UNDER AEOLUS'S HARP, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Come, ye whose hearts the tyrant sorrows wound
Last Line: And make my plaintive lays enchant like thine.
Alternate Author Name(s): Alderson, Amelia
Subject(s): Harps; Music & Musicians; Musical Instruments; Lyres


Come, ye whose hearts the tyrant sorrows wound;
Come, ye whose breasts the tyrant passions tear,
And seek this harp,.... in whose still-varying sound
Each woe its own appropriate plaint may hear.

Solemn and slow yon murmuring cadence rolls,
Till on the attentive ear it dies away,....
To your fond griefs responsive, ye, whose souls
O'er loved lost friends regret's sad tribute pay.

But hark! in regular progression move
Yon silver sounds, and mingle as they fall;....
Do they not wake thy trembling nerves, O Love,
And into warmer life thy feelings call?

Again it speaks;.... but, shrill and swift, the tones
In wild disorder strike upon the ear:
Pale Phrensy listens,.... kindred wildness owns,
And starts appalled the well known sounds to hear:

Lo! e'en the gay, the giddy and the vain
In deep delight these vocal wires attend,....
Silent and breathless watch the varying strain,
And pleased the vacant toils of mirth suspend.

So, when the lute on Memnon's statue hung
At day's first rising strains melodious poured
Untouched by mortal hands, the gathering throng
In silent wonder listened and adored.

But the wild cadence of these trembling strings
The enchantress Fancy with most rapture hears;
At the sweet sound to grasp her wand she springs,
And lo! her band of airy shapes appears!

She, rapt enthusiast, thinks the melting strains
A choir of angels breathe, in bright array
Bearing on radiant clouds to yon blue plains
A soul just parted from its silent clay.

And oft at eve her wild creative eye
Sees to the gale their silken pinions stream,
While in the quivering trees soft zephyrs sigh,
And through the leaves disclose the moon's pale beam.

O breathing instrument! be ever near
While to the pensive muse my vows I pay;
Thy softest call the inmost soul can hear,
Thy faintest breath can Fancy's pinions play.

And when art's laboured strains my feelings tire,
To seek thy simple music shall be mine;
I'll strive to win its graces to my lyre,
And make my plaintive lays enchant like thine.





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