Such moving sounds from such a careless touch, So unconcern'd her selfe, and we so much! What Arts is this, that with so little pains Transports us thus, and o'r our spirit raigns? The trembling strings about her fingers croud, And tell their joy for every kiss aloud; Small force there needs to make them tremble so; Touch'd by that hand, who would not tremble too? Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the care, Empties his Quiver on the listning Deere: Musick so softens and disarms the mind, That not an Arrow does resistance find; Thus the faire Tyrant celebrates the prize, And acts her self the triumph of her eyes. So Nero once, with Harp in hand, survey'd His flaming Rome, and as it burn'd, he play'd. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN EPITAPH ON M.H. by CHARLES COTTON THE CONVERGENCE OF THE TWAIN; LINES ON LOSS OF THE TITANIC by THOMAS HARDY THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT ON KEATS, WHO DESIRED THAT ON HIS TOMB SHOULD BE INSCRIBED: by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR by ALFRED TENNYSON TO A VAIN LADY by GEORGE GORDON BYRON THE DEVOTED by ELIZABETH MARGARET CHANDLER |