O Music! If Thou Hast A Charm That May The Sense Of Pain Disarm, Be All Thy Tender Tones Addressed To Soothe To Peace My Harriet'S Breast; And Bid The Magic Of Thy Strain So Still The Wakeful Throb Of Pain, That, Rapt In The Delightful Measure, Sweet Hope Again May Whisper Pleasure, And Seem The Notes Of Spring To Hear, Prelusive To A Happier Year! And If Thy Magic Can Restore The Shade Of Days That Smile No More, And Softer, Sweeter Colours Give To Scenes That In Remembrance Live; Be To Her Pensive Heart A Friend, And, Whilst The Tender Shadows Blend, Recall, Ere The Brief Trace Be Lost, Each Moment That She Prized The Most. Perhaps, When Many A Cheerful Day Hereafter Shall Have Stolen Away, If Then Some Old And Favourite Strain Should Bring Back To Her Thoughts Again The Hours When, Silent By Her Side, I Listened To Her Song And Sighed; Perhaps A Long-Forgotten Name, A Thought, If Not A Tear May Claim; And When In Distant Plains Away, Alone I Count Each Lingering Day, She May A Silent Prayer Prefer For Him Whose Heart Once Bled For Her.