My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string 
 The harp I yet can brook to hear; 
And let thy gentle fingers fling 
 Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
If in this heart a hope be dear, 
 That sound shall charm it forth again: 
If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. 

But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
 Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 
 And ached in sleepless silence, long; 
And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, 
 And break at once - or yield to song.