And the low, sad voice of the grieving brook
Will murmur all night of thee.
I shall sit alone—alone,
While the noontide hours steal by;
And mournful the woodland's music will be,—
Mournful the blue, calm heavens to me,—
Mournful the glory on earth and sea,—
And mournful the sunset sky.
O voice of exulting song!—
O bright, unwavering eye!—