It would but of this parting hour a bitter token be;
With funeral splendour to mine eye, it would but sadly shine,
And tell of early treasures lost, of joy no longer mine.
O sister! if thy heart be thus with buried grief oppress’d,
Where wouldst thou pour it forth so well as on my faithful breast?”
“Urge me no more! A blight hath fallen upon my summer years!
I should but darken thy young life with fruitless pangs and fears.
But take at least the lute I loved, and guard it for my sake,
And sometimes from its silvery strings one tone of memory wake!
Sing to those chords by starlight’s gleam our own sweet vesper-hymn,