When slumber her light and magic veil
O’er man and his woes has cast.
’Tis true, in the silent night you call,
And they answer you not again—
For the spirits of bliss are voiceless all;
Sound only was made for pain.
That their land is bright and they weep no more,
I have warbled from hill to hill,
But my plaintive strains should have told before,
They love, oh! they love you still.