Twelve songs

There be none of Beauty's daughters
  With a magic like thee;
And like music on the waters
  Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The [charmèd]1 ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:

And the midnight moon is weaving
  Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving
  As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

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 nurst,
  And ached in sleepless silence [long]1 --
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,
  And break at once -- or yield to song.