MUSIC has charms to sooth a savage breast.
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
I've read, that things inanimate have mov'd.
And, as with living souls, have been inform'd
By magic numbers and persuasive sound.
What then am I ? Am I more senseless grown
Than Trees or flint ? Oh, force of constant woe!
'T is not in harmony to calm my griefs.
Anselmo sleeps, and is at peace ; last night
The silent tomb receiv'd the good old king;
He and his sorrows now are safely lodg'd
Within its cold, but hospitable bosom.
Why am not I at peace ?