Lord George Gordon Byron ,
The harp the monarch minstrel swept |
| |
| The harp the monarch minstrel swept, |
| The King of men, the loved of Heaven, |
| Which Music hallow'd while she wept |
| O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, |
| Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven! |
| It soften'd men of iron mould, |
| It gave them virtues not their own; |
| No ear so dull, no soul so cold, |
| That felt not, fired not to the tone, |
| Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne! |
| |
| It told the triumphs of our King, |
| It wafted glory to our God; |
| It made our gladden'd valleys ring, |
| The cedars bow, the mountains nod; |
| Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode! |
| Since then, though heard on earth no more, |
| Devotion and her daughter Love |
| Still bid the bursting spirit soar |
| To sounds that seem as from above, |
| In dreams that day's broad light can not remove. |
| |
| |
Verfasser dieses englischen Gedichtes ist
Lord George Gordon Byron (*1788-01-22 -
†1824-04-18). |
