EXTRACTS FROM MY POCKET BOOK.
113
Literary Gazette 27th September 1823, Page 619
MY HARP!
Come, gentle harp, and let me hold
Communion with thy melody,
And be my tale of sorrow told
To thee, my harp, and only thee.
There are who marvel I should twine
My wreath of flowers, whose bloom is gone;
And wonder hand so light as mine
Should linger but on sorrow's tone.
They say that life, to one so young,
Must be a sweet and sunny view;
They know not how my soul has clung
To hope, and found that hope untrue;
They know not that a smile for me
Is but the feigning masquer's art,—
That each low note I draw from thee
Is the sad echo of my heart.
