Now changed is this realm—all bliss has departed,
And chill does the river of life seem to flow;
In these meadows and moors, where I wandered light-hearted,
Naught, naught can I trace but a region of woe.
III.
Now in the bright woodland the sweet birds are singing,
Their notes in soft concord float through the calm air;
While in deepest distress now my sad heart is wringing,
And ever must throb ’neath a burden of care.
IV.
My heart, that once beat with a rapid emotion,
Now droops like the vine in the winter’s cold blast;
Its tendrils have withered, and weary its motion,
As the dirges, recoiling, sweep moaningly past.
V.
No more o’er the days of my childhood I’ll ponder,
No more o’er those scenes which I once held so dear;
But, with grief my allotment, I’ll drearily wander
Life’s dark vale of gloom but a while—yet fore’er.
VI.
The sunbeams they come—but they melt not my sadness;
The bright buds they ope—but they mock with their bloom;
For, ah! the next time that they bloom in their gladness,
They’ll bloom but to fade on my desolate tomb.