of the spring
Were wafted about us when thy voice was heard albeit in
autumn.
All thoughts of the spring—all its hopes woke and breathed
through our hearts,
Till our souls thrilled with passionate song and the perfume
of spring which is love.
Why art thou gone from us, sweet Linnet of the Irish
woods?
Again the chaunter paused and again his harp prolonged the wailing melody. Then passing into a more sadly soft strain, he continued his song:—