AH, let me sing, or all the chords, ere long, That hold the heart-reef round the tide of song, Will break with the insurgent waves that roll So wildly 'gainst it,—and the struggling soul Be swept by surging, unsung music down, And left in its own element to drown.
Ab, let me sing, though dark and heavy clouds Of sorrow now our beauteous country shroud; Though war devastates, and on every breath Of heaven's breeze is borne a wail of death; Though widows' sighs and orphans' cries are heard, Till every pulse within the soul is stirred, And swelling tides of kindred sorrows start Within the throbbing cells of every heart.
Still let me sing! Those saddening themes inspire My pensive soul, and from my trembling lyre Shall fall the stricken notes in sorrowing strains, Like those from David's harp on Chaldea's plains,— Where, by a tyrant's power, was led the band Of weeping captives out of Judea's land. Yes, let me sing! 'twill calm the heart's deep throes, And lull the spirit into sweet repose.
