THE LAST SONG THE BARD SUNG.
107
Of the nightingale—no more
Pine for maiden I adore—
For the kiss and murm’ring voice
Of the lady of my choice!
Age’s pangs are on my brow,
(Love is not my sickness now!)
Love and all his joys are o’er,
E’en his memory I deplore!
All my strength like chaff is sear—
Death is threateningly near!
Near is the impending doom,
Earth, and darkness, and the tomb—
Christ, my thoughts, my footsteps lead!
Amen!—no other guide I need!
