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In tones, as rich as some young bird's,
Warbling her own delightful words.
Warbling her own delightful words.
Melodia! O how soft thy darts,
How tender and how sweet!
Thy song enchained a thousand hearts
And drew them to thy feet;
And, as thy bright lips sang, they caught
So beautiful a ray.
That, as I gazed, I almost thought
The spirit of thy lay
Had left, while melting on the air,
Its sweet expression painted there.
How tender and how sweet!
Thy song enchained a thousand hearts
And drew them to thy feet;
And, as thy bright lips sang, they caught
So beautiful a ray.
That, as I gazed, I almost thought
The spirit of thy lay
Had left, while melting on the air,
Its sweet expression painted there.
Sweet vision of that starry even!
Thy virgin beauty yet,
Next to the blessed hope of heaven.
Is in my spirit set.
It is a something, shrined apart,
A light from memory, shed,
To live until this tender heart.
On which it lives, is dead—
Reminding me of brighter hours,
Of summer eves and summer flowers.
Thy virgin beauty yet,
Next to the blessed hope of heaven.
Is in my spirit set.
It is a something, shrined apart,
A light from memory, shed,
To live until this tender heart.
On which it lives, is dead—
Reminding me of brighter hours,
Of summer eves and summer flowers.
