free-verse8 lines
A Song. The Lover The Lute Of His Deceased Mistress.
by John Carr (Sir)Alas! but like a summer's dream
All the delight I felt appears,
While mis'ry's weeping moments seem
A ling'ring age of tears.
Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute!
And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list'ning mourner mute,
Will call each tender grief my own.