Yet here thy step has often been,
And here thy songs were sung;
Here were thy beating heart and lute
Chord after chord unstrung;
Thy dying breath was on this air—
It hath not left its music there.
No:—nameless is the lowly spot
Where that young poet sleeps;
No glory lights its funeral lamp,
No pity on it weeps;
There weeds may grow, or flowers may bloom,
For his is a forgotten tomb.
And yet how often those dark pines,
Once heard thy twilight song;
'Twas written on those autumn leaves
The wild winds bear along.
Of all who gaze on Tivoli,
Who is there that remembers thee?
That dark-eyed lady, she who taught
Thy most impassioned tone;
The spirit of thy poetry—
Her fate has been thine own:
A weary brow, a faded cheek,
A heart that only beat to break.
