Why do you sing, oh heart of mine, and join the lark's glad strain,
Your little day will soon decline to never dawn again;
Your last year's joys lie cold and dead
And stir not from their silent bed
And stalking dimly in their stead, a thousand disappointments?
Your little day will soon decline to never dawn again;
Your last year's joys lie cold and dead
And stir not from their silent bed
And stalking dimly in their stead, a thousand disappointments?
Oh! in your inmost, secret shrine a deathless harp is hung,
Its music is forever thine, by other lyres unsung;
It holds no phantom in its scope,
No dark foreboding, there, may grope;
'Tis timed and tuned by deathless hope and hope is all its being.
Its music is forever thine, by other lyres unsung;
It holds no phantom in its scope,
No dark foreboding, there, may grope;
'Tis timed and tuned by deathless hope and hope is all its being.
Trill, happy lark, though ruined lies the home once all your pride
Though time all loving skill defies, it yet shall be defied;
Chant o'er the wrecks of stern decay
Hope's happiest, holiest prophecy,
The wind may bear your notes away but mine shall sound forever.
Though time all loving skill defies, it yet shall be defied;
Chant o'er the wrecks of stern decay
Hope's happiest, holiest prophecy,
The wind may bear your notes away but mine shall sound forever.
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