PRELUDING low, in notes that faint and tremble,
Swelling, awakening, dying, plaining deep,
While such sensations in the soul assemble,
As make it pleasure to the eyes to weep.

Is there a heart that ever loved in vain,
Though years have thrown their veil o'er all most dear,
That lives not each sensation o'er again
In sympathy with sounds like those that mingle here?

Still the fair Gnome's light hand the chime prolongs;
And while his utmost art the strain employs,
Cephroniel's softened son in gushing songs,
Pour'd forth his sad, deep sense of long departed joys.