If naught but joy can touch thee now;
If, in thy heart, thou hast no vow that speaks of Nature's anguish.
III.
Oh! I have held my sorrows dear, and felt, tho' poor and slighted,
The songs we love are those we hear when love is unrequited.
But thou art still the slave of dawn,
And canst not sing till night be gone,
Till o'er the pathway of the fawn the sunbeams shine and quiver.
IV.
Thou art the minion of the sun that rises in his splendour,