Where a single star in its glory shone,
Like a haughty heart, bereft and lone.
Round the marble brow waved the clust’ring hair,
And the tiny hands were clasp’d as in pray’r;
She spoke, and each low and trembling word
Was sad as the wail of the widow’d bird.
“Oh! sweet is the spell that the zephyr flings
As it sweeps o’er the wild harp’s silvery strings;
And soft is the murmur’d minstrelsy
Of the flashing waves on the summer sea;