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Never again shall the strains be sung,
That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue;
The music is over, and Death's cold dart
Hath broken the spell of that free glad heart.
That in sweetness dropped from her silver tongue;
The music is over, and Death's cold dart
Hath broken the spell of that free glad heart.
Often at eve when the breeze is still,
And the moon floats up by the distant hill,
As I wander alone 'mid the summer bowers,
And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers,
I will think of the time when she lingered there
With her mild blue eyes, and her long fair hair;
I will treasure her name in my bosom-core;
But my heart is sad—I can sing no more.
And the moon floats up by the distant hill,
As I wander alone 'mid the summer bowers,
And wreathe my locks with the sweet wild flowers,
I will think of the time when she lingered there
With her mild blue eyes, and her long fair hair;
I will treasure her name in my bosom-core;
But my heart is sad—I can sing no more.
