My soul is dark—Oh! quickly string
  The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
  Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.—
If in this heart a hope be dear,
  That sound shall charm it forth again—
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
  'Twill flow—and cease to burn my brain—

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
  Nor let thy notes of joy be first—
I tell thee—Minstrel! I must weep,
  Or else this heavy heart will burst—
For it hath been by sorrow nurst,
  And ached in sleepless silence long—
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,
  And break at once—or yield to song.