To Miss C

ON HEARING HER PLAY ON THE HARPSICHORD .

Had Israel's Monarch, when misfortune's dart
Pierced to its deepest core his heaving breast,
Heard but thy dulcet tones, his sorrowing heart,
At such soft tones, had soothed itself to rest.

Yes, sweeter far than Jesse's son's thy strains —
Yet what avail if sorrow they disarm?
Love's sharper sting within the soul remains,
The melting movements wound us as they charm.
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