A SONG.
Reading edition
THE LOVER THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.
Alas! but like a summer’s dream All the delight I felt appears, While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem A ling’ring age of tears. Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! And pour thy soft consoling tone, While I, a list’ning mourner mute, Will call each tender grief my own.