There's a wild harp, which unconfined by rule
Of science, varies with the varying air,
And sympathizes with the free-born wind;
Swelling, whene'er the tempest swells, or sad

When the soft western-breeze in moans goes down,
And sighs, and dies away. 'T is sweet to mark
Its tone, and listen in some musing mood
To it strange cadence. Be your music such,
And let it die at sundown if you please.