148
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
With fainter tones the harp then rung,
As thus, with bow'd down head, she sung.
SONG.
I have belied my woman's heart,
In my false song's deceiving words;
How could I say love would depart,
As pass the lightsongs of spring birds?
Vain, vain love would be
Froth upon a summer sea.
No, love was made to soothe and share
The ills that wait our mortal birth;
No, love was made to teach us where
One trace of Eden haunts our earth.
Born amid the hours of spring,
Soothing autumn's perishing.
