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LELLA.
Should no more bloom be gathered? While her hand
With mournful sweetness swept her silver lyre,
Attracted by its angel melody,
A spirit came and bended at her feet.
With earnest love and gentle reverence—
A spirit worthy to commune with hers—
Gifted and eloquent, and full of truth!
And grateful for the homage offered her,
While all her soul quivered with intense joy,
She yielded up the jewels of the love
That would not blend with darkness—and received,
With blessings and with prayers and earnest trust,
A love and tenderness as deep and pure
As the rich light that broods around a star.
LELLA.
Softly sleeping, softly sleeping,
Where the graceful vines are creeping
With their tendrils intertwining—
Where the dew all day is shining—
Where a limpid stream is wending,
And one aged tree is bending.
And the gentle flowers are weeping,
Softly sleeping, softly sleeping,
Lella lies.
Where the graceful vines are creeping
With their tendrils intertwining—
Where the dew all day is shining—
Where a limpid stream is wending,
And one aged tree is bending.
And the gentle flowers are weeping,
Softly sleeping, softly sleeping,
Lella lies.
Pale stars glisten, pale stars glisten,
Blossoms bend their heads to listen—
In the old tree winds are toning
Rustling music, sad and moaning—
Moonbeams through the shades are beaming
Where a cold white stone is gleaming—
Blossoms bend their heads to listen—
In the old tree winds are toning
Rustling music, sad and moaning—
Moonbeams through the shades are beaming
Where a cold white stone is gleaming—
