Queen of every moving measure, 
Sweetest source of purest pleasure, 
Music; why thy powers employ 
Only for the sons of joy? 
Only for the smiling guests 
At natal or at nuptial feasts? 
Rather thy lenient numbers pour 
On those whom secret griefs devour; 
Bid be still the throbbing hearts 
Of those, whom death, or absence parts, 
And, with some softly whisper'd air, 
Smooth the brow of dumb despair.