Song, for the Drama of the Spy

The harp of love, when first I heard
Its song beneath the moonlight tree,
Was echoed by his plighted word,
And ah, how dear its song to me;
But wail'd the hour will ever be
When to the air the bugle gave,
To hush love's gentle minstrelsy,
The wild war music of the brave.
For he hath heard its song, and now
Its voice is sweeter than mine own;
And he hath broke the plighted vow
He breathed to me and love alone.
That harp hath lost its wonted tone,
No more its strings his fingers move,
Oh would that he had only known
The music of the harp of love.