WARBLE THY LAYS TO ME
COME down from the heights, my bird,
And warble thy lays to me!
I shall pine and droop in my grassy nook
For the passionate song that my spirit shook,
And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook
Will murmur all night of thee.
I shall sit alone—alone,
While the noontide hours steal by;
And mournful the woodland's music will be,—
Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me,—
Mournful the glory on earth and sea,—
And mournful the sunset sky.
O voice of exulting song!—
O bright, unwavering eye!—
O free wing soaring in fetterless flight
Up to the Fountain of quenchless Light!
O, Earth that darkenest in sudden night,
I shudder, and faint, and die!
