At thy will from thy spirit their harmonies sweep,
And I ween thou hast soared to the portals of Heaven,
Or some angel a tone to thy praises has given.
O, Jenny, the brightest cynosure below!
The fount in thy bosom must here cease to flow;
Like the sear leaves of autumn which shroud the old years,
Thy harp-strings must perish ’mid wailings and tears;
Thy lovers who bend at thy purity’s shrine,
Enchained by the spells of thy carols divine,
When no temple’s proud arches resound with thy strain,