Thomas Moore (1779–1852)

          ’TIS believed that this Harp, which I wake now for thee

          Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;

          And who often, at eve, through the bright waters roved,

          To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she loved.

          But she loved him in vain, for he left her to weep,

          And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep,

          Till heaven look’d with pity on true-love so warm,

          And changed to this soft Harp the sea-maiden’s form.

          Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheeks smiled the same —

          While her sea-beauties gracefully form’d the light

          And her hair, as, let loose, o’er her white arm it fell,

          Was changed to bright chords uttering melody’s spell.

          Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known

          To mingle love’s language with sorrow’s sad tone;

          Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay

          To speak love when I’m near thee, and grief when away.