But now, this dainty lute is dead—
Or answers but to sigh and wail,
Echoing the voices of the fled,
Passing before me dim and pale!
Yet angel forms are in that train,
And One upon the still air flings,
Of woven melody, a strain,
Down trembling from Her heaven-bent wings.
'Tis past—that Speaking Form is flown—
But memory's pleased and listening ear,