II. And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the dead! III. Away; we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. MY SOUL IS DARK. I. MY SOUL IS DARK-Oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. II. But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nurst, And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, And break at once-or yield to song. |