In the high gift of Art;
And still thou shalt be styled a queen,
To brighten earth's grief-shaded green.
When thou dost falter sorrow's tale,
With trembling accents low,
The plaintive breezes of the vale,
With mingled pathos, flow;
The melting eye is bathed in tears,
And grief, in every face, appears.
When thou dost stand in mortal's view,