1   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. 2   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.