Let the harp be mute for ever,
Rosa wakes no more the strain,
All its strings asunder sever,
Rosa will not sing again:
Let those blooming chaplets perish,
That crown'd it in its hour of joy,
Nor ought remain the thought to cherish,
Of her, that could my peace destroy.
O! may no wand'ring breeze awaken,
The echo of its slumb'ring strings,
When by the zephyrs pinion shaken,
It seems as if a spirit sings!
Why should I feel a thrill of pleasure?
Condemn'd from every hope to part:
Why doat on melody's soft measure?
With desolation in my heart.