I Cannot Touch The Harp Again, And Sing Another Idle Lay, To Cool A Maddening, Burning Brain, And Drive The Midnight Fiend Away. Music, Own Sister To The Soul. Bids Roses Bloom On Cheeks All Pale; And Sweet Her Joys And Sorrows Roll When Sings The Swedish Nightingale. * * * * * I Cannot Touch The Harp Again; No Chords Will Vibrate On The String; Like Broken Flowers Upon The Plain, My Heart E'En Withers While I Sing. Aeolian Harps Have Witching Tones, On Morning Or The Evening Gale; No Melody Their Music Owns As Sings The Swedish Nightingale.