140
THE GOLDEN VIOLET.
And many a fair lip smiled its claim,
As echo sweet to minstrel lay.
Pray'd they the countess that her hand
Should first assume the harp's command.
She paused, then said that she would wake
One, for that nameless poet's sake;
One song snatch'd from oblivion's wave,
Like the lone lily on his grave.
SONG.
My heart is like the failing hearth
Now by my side,
One by one its bursts of flame
Have burnt and died.
There are none to watch the sinking blaze,
And none to care,
Or if it kindle into strength,
Or waste in air.
