William Somerville

For the Lute

Gently, my lute! move every string,
Soft as my sighs reveal my pain,
While I, in plaintive numbers, sing
Of slighted vows and cold disdam.

In vain her airs, in vain her art,
In vain she frowns, when I appear;
Thy notes shall melt her frozen heart
She cannot hate if she can hear.

And see, she smiles! through all the groves
Triumphant IöPaeans sound:
Clap all your wings, ye little Loves!
Ye sportive Graces! dance around.

Ye listening oaks! bend to my song;
Not Orpheus play'd a nobler lay;
Ye savages! about me throng;
Ye rocks! and harder hearts! obey.

She comes, she comes, relenting fair!
To fill with joy my longing arms,
What faithful lover can despair
Who thus with verse and music charms.