She will leave thee nevermore.
From the earth a star has faded, and the shrine of song has shaded,
And the Muses veil their faces, weeping sorrowful and sore;
But the harp, all rent and broken, left us many a thrilling token,
We shall hear its numbers spoken, and repeated o’er and o’er,
Till our hearts shall cease to tremble—we shall hear them sounding o’er,
Sounding ever, evermore.
We shall hear them, like a fountain tinkling down a rugged mountain,
Like the wailing of the tempest mingling ’mid the ocean’s roar;
Like the winds of autumn sighing when the summer flowers are dying;