SONG
The linnet in the rocky dells,
The moor-lark in the air,
The bee among the heather
bells
That hide my lady fair:
The wild deer browse above
her breast;
The wild birds raise their
brood;
And they, her smiles of
love caressed,
Have left her solitude!
I ween, that when the grave's
dark wall
Did first her form retain,
They thought their hearts
could ne'er recall
The light of joy again.
They thought the tide of
grief would flow
Unchecked through future
years;
But where is all their anguish
now,
And where are all their
tears?
Well, let them fight for
honour's breath,
Or pleasure's shade pursue--
The dweller in the land
of death
Is changed and careless
too.
And, if their eyes should
watch and weep
Till sorrow's source were
dry,
She would not, in her tranquil
sleep,
Return a single sigh!
Blow, west-wind, by the lonely
mound,
And murmur, summer-streams--
There is no need of other
sound
To soothe my lady's dreams. |
