Ah! where is the harp that was strung to thy praise,
So oft and so sweetly in happier days?

When his brother David (who generally wrote a birthday song) was no longer on earth.

 

Ah! where is the harp that was strung to thy praise,
So oft and so sweetly in happier days?
When the tears that we shed were the tears of our joy,
And the pleasures of home were unmixed with alloy?
The harp is now mute—its last breathings are spoken—
And the cord, though ’twas threefold, is now, alas, broken!
Yet why should we murmur, short-sighted and vain,
Since death to that loved one was undying gain.
Ah, fools! shall we grieve that he left this poor scene,
To dwell in the realms that are ever serene?
Though he sparkled the gem in our circle of love,
He is even more prized tin the circles above.
And though sweetly he sung of his father on earth,
When this day would inspire him with tenderest mirth,
Yet a holier tone to his harp is now given,
As he sings to his unborn Father in heaven.

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