Of her, to whom it was my joy to sing;
While o’er her brow the light of love would break,
Beauteous as morning’s first encrimsoned streak!
Clari!—but I must let that name no more
Sweep o’er these strings.—Maiden more fair
Than any minstrel’s love in days of yore!
And dearer, too!—but I must strive to tear
That name from out my heart; where it so long
Hath dwelt like odor, or the breath of song.
“Yet still one long—one passionate adieu