Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
I. To MusicRichard Bingham Davis (17711799)
Y
Sweet soother of my soul! no more thy power,
That oft has beamed upon the gloomy hour,
Shall fold my spirit in ethereal spell.
Of fragrant eve, from the lone warbler’s throat;
No more I ’ll hear thee touch the expressive string,
Or swell with softening grace the airy note.
That name, on thy soft undulations borne,
Which fancy heard in each delightful thrill—
Eliza’s name is from my bosom torn,
And when Eliza dwells not in the strain,
Thy sweetest notes are harsh, my energies in vain.