- The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept,
- The King of men, the loved of Heaven!
- Which Music hallowed while she wept
- O'er tones her heart of hearts had given—
- Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!
- It softened men of iron mould,
- It gave them virtues not their own;
- No ear so dull, no soul so cold,
- That felt not—fired not to the tone,
- Till David's Lyre grew mightier than his Throne!
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- It told the triumphs of our King,
- It wafted glory to our God;
- It made our gladdened valleys ring,
- The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
- Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode!
- Since then, though heard on earth no more,
- Devotion and her daughter Love
- Still bid the bursting spirit soar
- To sounds that seem as from above,
- In dreams that day's broad light can not remove.