I.

The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept,[le] 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!