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ELVIRA.
What dying fall from more than mortal string Steals on mine ear so soft and slow?From upper realms of air it seems to fling Its mournful sweetness on the world below.—Such strains do seraphs chaunt, when the still hour Of solemn midnight breathes its gloom around,What time from harps of heaven they love to pour Their hymns of joy; and such the blissful soundThat welcomes home from scenes of earthly painSome pure and happy spirit—such the strainThat whispers peace before the blessed die,And on the closing ear makes distant melody!'Tis thine, Elvira! angels bear thee hence; Peril and pain shall visit thee no more,No more shall anguish wring thy tortur'd sense, Nor doom thy soul to sorrow's with'ring pow'r.Yet I must weep—but not that thou art free, For bliss is thine beyond conception great;I weep—but, oh! I weep to follow thee, And rather envy than deplore thy fate.
