Thou art mourning now o’er a broken spell;
Thou hast pour’d thy heart’s rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth!
Mourn on!—yet come thou not here the while,
It is but a pain to see thee smile!
There is not a tone in our songs for thee—
Home with thy sorrows flee!
Ring, joyous chords!—ring out again!——
But what dost thou with the revel’s train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,