But ’tis not for wisdom only
That my vain regrets are made.
So! what a train of unutterable sadness the last words of each called up, suggesting some strange sorrow that must force itself into expression of sorrowing strains of music, tuned to even sadder words. Ah yes! to the first, listen!—
She was like a radiant rose
That with sweetness overflows.
Her bright eyes were darkest blue
And her hair a golden hue.
She was lovely as the day,
And within her breast she bore
Heart as light and bright and gay