Song
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- The linnet in the rocky dells,
- The moor-lark in the air,
- The bee among the heather bells
- That hide my lady fair:
- The wild deer browse above her breast;
- The wild birds raise their brood;
- And they, her smiles of love caressed,
- Have left her solitude!
- I ween, that when the grave's dark wall
- Did first her form retain,
- They thought their hearts could ne'er recall
- The light of joy again.
- They thought the tide of grief would flow
- Unchecked through future years;
- But where is all their anguish now,
- And where are all their tears?
- Well, let them fight for honour's breath,
- Or pleasure's shade pursue--
- The dweller in the land of death
- Is changed and careless too.
- And, if their eyes should watch and weep
- Till sorrow's source were dry,
- She would not, in her tranquil sleep,
- Return a single sigh!
- Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
- And murmur, summer-streams--
- There is no need of other sound
- To soothe my lady's dreams.
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