Of all the earthly good that mortals crave,
In this my farewell hour I nought regret;
Nought—save the burning sighs that soar above,
The lyre’s full ecstasy, or wordless love
Of hearts that ne’er forget.
To sweep the lyre at listening beauty’s feet—
To mark from note to note the transport sweet
Thrill her rapt bosom with responsive power;
To draw the tears of rapture from her eyes,
As morning dews are swept by zephyrs’ sighs