THE LUTE.
BY L .E. L.
Oh! sing again that mournful song,
That song of other times!
The music bears my soul along,
To other, dearer climes.
I love its low and broken tone;
The music seems to me
Like the wild wind when singing lone
Over a twilight sea.
It may not sound so sweet to you,
To you it cannot bring
The valleys where your childhood grew,
The memories of your spring.
My father's house, my infancy,
Rise present to my mind,
As if I had not crossed the sea,
Or left my youth behind.
