TO MY ÆOLIAN HARP,
AS IT WAS PLAYING ON A COLD STORMY DAY.
Say, was it, my harp, the invisible wing
Of a spirit that passed o'er thy musical string?
And comes it in love, with its light, airy hand,
To play me a song from the heavenly land?
Of a spirit that passed o'er thy musical string?
And comes it in love, with its light, airy hand,
To play me a song from the heavenly land?
Though chill is the wind, and fitful it blows,
Yet sweet as in summer thy music still flows;
But, when rages the blast, and contending winds roar,
In silence you wait till the tempest is o'er.
Yet sweet as in summer thy music still flows;
But, when rages the blast, and contending winds roar,
In silence you wait till the tempest is o'er.
And thus, like thy strings, is the virtuous mind,—
Harmonious e'en in adversity's wind;
But, when by the tempests of life it is driven,
It remembers, in silence, the storm is from Heaven.
Harmonious e'en in adversity's wind;
But, when by the tempests of life it is driven,
It remembers, in silence, the storm is from Heaven.
