Queen of every moving measure,
Sweetest source of purest pleasure,
Music; why thy powers employ
Only for the sons of joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those, whom death, or absence parts,
And, with some softly whisper'd air,
Smooth the brow of dumb despair.
More verses by Joseph Warton
- Ode To A Lady On The Spring
- Ode To Fancy
- The Enthusiast, Or The Lover Of Nature
- Verses On A Butterfly