Classic Poem

Queen of every moving measure,
Sweetest source of purest pleasure,
Music! why thy pow'rs employ
Only for the sons of joy;
Only for the smiling guests,
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those, whom secret griefs devour,
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those whom death or absence parts,
And, with some softly whisper'd air,
Sooth the brow of dumb despair.