From worlds beneath some blue Elysian sky;
Breathe of repose, the pure, the bright, th’ undying—
Of joy no more—bewildering harmony!
SECOND-SIGHT.
“Ne’er err’d the prophet-heart that grief inspired,
Though joy’s illusions mock their votarist.”—Maturin.
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!
A murmur of the soul which blends
With the flow of song and wine.