Within my soul have died,
As fade away the glorious tints
From heaven, at even-tide.
Wild minstrel! seize thy harp, I pray,
And let a dirge arise
In frantic woe—then faintly die
Amid the nightwind's sighs.
The saddest—deepest—wildest strain
Should wail such visions o'er;
Within the mournful Past entombed,