A voice of wailing and of woe
Fills the proud monarch’s regal hall,
There’s madness on the kingly brow,
There’s frenzy in the soul of Saul.
Where is the bard whose gifted lyre
Can solace to the mind impart?
Whose lips can utter words of fire,
And drive the demon from the heart?
He comes! the shepherd minstrel comes,
His hallowed fingers sweep the lyre;
He comes! he comes! the holy bard,
All radiant with prophetic fire.
Fill, fill the bowl with rosy wine,
To cheer the bosom of the king,
Deep in the goblet let it shine,
And wreathe it round with flowers of spring;
The morn of life is on the wing,
The time that flies, returns no more:
Joy hath its grief-love hath its sting
But wine rejoices to the core.
The minstrel ceased-the monarch smiled,
But still the song was vain,
It could not calm the frenzy wild
That rankled in his brain.—
He raves! he raves!-O! minstrel mild
Retune thy lyre again.
The Lord is good-the Lord is great,
Long doth his loving-kindness last;
The heart that hath for pardon sued,
Ne’er weeps in vain its errors past.
’Tis He can heal the suffering soul,
’Tis He can cheer in sorrow’s day.
The monarch listened, smiled, and wept
The evil spirit passed away.