And as thy fingers swept the strings,
Thy eyes have wept most tenderly;
Then list awhile till I beguile
Thy heart with sorrow's melody.
A young heart tried a maid to move
And pined to death for very love;
The maiden naught but scorn returned
Nor dropt one tear upon his bier;
He died unhonoured and unmourned.
Oh, touch, my Anna, touch the string
With sprightlier airs, nor grief endure;
That heart you weep, though wounded deep,
Is yet not past your cure.