Queen of every moving measure, Sweetest source of purest pleasure, Music; why thy powers employ Only for the sons of joy? Only for the smiling guests At natal or at nuptial feasts? Rather thy lenient numbers pour On those whom secret griefs devour; Bid be still the throbbing hearts Of those, whom death, or absence parts, And, with some softly whisper'd air, Smooth the brow of dumb despair.