From the earth a star has faded, and the shrine of song has shaded,
And the Muses veil their faces, weeping sorrowful and sore;
But the harp, all rent and broken, left us many a thrilling token,
We shall hear its numbers spoken, and repeated o'er and o'er,
Till our hearts shall cease to tremble—we shall hear them sounding o'er, Sounding ever, evermore.
We shall hear them, like a fountain tinkling down a rugged mountain ;
Like the wailing of the tempest mingling 'mid the ocean's roar ;
Like the winds of autumn sighing when the summer flowers are dying ;
Like a spirit-voice replying from a dim and distant shore ;
Like a wild, mysterious echo from a distant, shadowy shore, We shall hear them evermore.
Nevermore wilt thou, undaunted, wander through the palace haunted.
Or the cypress vales Titanic, which thy spirit did explore ;
Never hear the ghoul king, dwelling in the ancient steeple tolling,
With a slow and solemn knelling, losses human hearts deplore ;
Telling in a sort of Runic rhyme the losses we deplore ; Tolling, tolling, evermore.
