But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye!
Away! there’s a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man! wilt thou here find rest!
Away! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead:
Thou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth—
Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords!—ring forth again!