Softly gliding through the casement from yon grove of orange-trees;
That mine ear may drink the music gushing forth in mellow lays,
Made by song-birds sweetly warbling their evening hymns of praise;
That mine eye again may wander to the bosom of yon stream,
Where the ripples dance as lightly as young fairies in a dream.
Now bend your ear, my sister, for my life is ebbing fast,
And my heart must tell its secret before the dream is past;
It is all the grief I've cherished that thou hast never known,
For, save this, my thoughts have ever found an echo in thine own.
It were better not to tell thee, but my spirit spurns control,