THE LAST SONG.
"Sing to me love, thy voice is sweet!
It falls upon my ear
Like summer-gales o'er breathing flowers,
And makes even sickness dear;
Sing to me, love, the hour is meet,
This twilight hour serene,
Too dim to let officious care
Intrude high thoughts between.
Sing to me, love, the time is short,
I feel my strength decay,
The ties that bound my soul so fast
Melt like a dream away."
She sang to cheer his pensive mood
A deep and tuneful strain,
The changeless bliss of heaven how pure,
And earthly joys how vain.
At first, all tremulous and faint,
Awoke the warbling tone,
Then clearer, higher rose, and caught
An ardour not its own;
Strength, strength, as for an hour of need,
As if her lip were made
The harp on which some spirit-hand
Celestial measures play'd.
