Alone, awake to hear the sweet harps play,
where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
by such and such is happiness thrown away.
Each morn a thousand roses brings, you say,
whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
alone, awake to hear the sweet harps play.
Whenever from my circling arms you stray,
who looked a white lamb, yet was a black sheep,
by such and such is happiness thrown away.
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Daughters and sons to yon compartments creep
alone! Awake, to hear the sweet harps play!
The face of Nature we no more survey
and in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep.
By such and such is happiness thrown away.
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
ne’er saw I, never felt a calm so deep!
Alone, awake to hear the sweet harps play,
by such and such is happiness thrown away.
