Queen of ev’ry moving measure,
Sweetest source of purest pleasure,
Music; why thy pow’rs 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,
Oh! smooth the brow of dumb despair.