SING the old song, amid the sounds dispersing That burden treasured in your hearts too long; Sing it with voice low breathed, but never name her. She will not hear you, in her turrets nursing High thoughts, too high to mate with mortal song- Bend o'er her, gentle Heaven, but do not claim her! In twilight caves, and secret lonelinesses, She shades the bloom of her unearthly days; And the soft winds alone have power to woo her: Far off we catch the dark gleam of her tresses; And wild birds haunt the wood- walks where she strays, Intelligible music warbling to her. That Spirit charged to follow and defend her, He also, doubtless, suffers this love- pain; And she perhaps is sad, hearing his sighing: And yet that face is not so sad as tender; Like some sweet singer's when her sweetest strain From the heaved heart is gradually dying! |