My Soul Is Dark

My soul is dark—Oh! quickly stringThe harp I yet can brook to hear;And let thy gentle fingers flingIts 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 ach'd in sleepless silence long;And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,And break at once—or yield to song.