For those deprived of scenes so bright?
But why ask ye? no themes like these
Your thoughts make sad—of other things
Ye think, while onward wafts the breeze
And the night bird sweetly sings.
And yet, there is many a heart
To whom the moonbeams give no light,
Those strings with wo do almost part,
Swept rudely by the cold world’s blight.
No soothing ray melts o’er their souls,