“My harp also is turned to mourning, and my organ into the voice of those
that weep.”—_Job. 30, 31._
“Once” did this heart exult at coming spring,
My sunny smiles were bright as April skies!
Or if tears ever overflowed my eyes,
They passed as showers, which April clouds do bring,
And quick again my joyous soul took wing;
As when the bird from out its covert flies,
To welcome sunshine back with carolling,
New plumes its pinions, higher yet to rise.
But now, alas! I’m like the _wounded_ bird!
An arrow in this bosom pierces deep—
My spirit droops—my song no more is heard;
My harp to mourning turned, is only stirred
As with the plaintive tones of those that weep,
And I am sad, while Spring her festival doth keep.
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