Or rainbow gleaming from a water-fall,
A throb, a thrill, a joy though set in dole—
For Lethe could not wash away the whole—
That she reward had been of each sharp pang
By Orpheus borne, theme of each song he sang.
Conscious if voiceless, she. And he? The lyre
Which, while its master hoped, had quenched its fire,
Was ever confidant of his despair,
The instrument commissioned to declare
His wrongs. They tell who know, that in a cave