Clara, hast thou not often seen, and smiled,
A rosy child,
Deeming that none were near,
Touch, with a trembling hand,
Some fine--toned instrument,
Then gaze with sparkling eye, as on her ear
The murmurs died, like gales, that, having fanned
Soft summer flowers, sink spent;
Half--fearing, still she lingers,
Till o'er the strings again she flings
Less tremblingly her fingers!--

But if a stranger eye
The timid sport should spy,
Oh then, with pulses wild,
This rosy child
Will throb, and fly,
Turn pale and tremble, tremble and turn red,
And in thy bosom hide her head!

--Even thus the Harp to me
Hath been a play--thing strange,
A thing of fear, of wonder, and of glee,
Yet would I not exchange
This light Harp's simple gear, for all that Man holds dear;
And should the stranger's ear its tones regardless hear,
It still is sweet to thee!