TO A LADY,
WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN ABSENT SISTER.
O! touch the chord yet once again,
Nor chide me, though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.
Nor chide me, though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.
It murmured of an absent friend;
The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.
The voice, the air, 'twas all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.
And days and months have darkly passed,
Since last I listened to her lay;
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.
Since last I listened to her lay;
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.
Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathed;
Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou hast wreathed.
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathed;
Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou hast wreathed.
'Tis sweet, though sad—yes, I will stay,
I cannot tear myself away.
I cannot tear myself away.
