“‘When nightly my wild harp I bring To wake all its music for thee, So sweet looks that face while I sing, To reason no longer I’m free. I forget thou art queen of the land-- ’Tis thy beauty alone that I see: And, trembling at touch of thy hand, All else is forgotten by me! “‘The spell is upon me in sleep, In the region of dreams thou art mine! I wake--but, ah! ’tis to weep, And the hope of my slumbers resign. Ah! hadst thou been less than thou art, Or I more deserving of thee, Thou mightst have been queen of my heart, Thou mightst have been all things to me!’”…
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