For works with similar titles, see Song.
H, lady! sing that song again,
For cold the heart must be
That thrills not to thy melting voice
With echoing harmony:
I cannot pour, as others do,
Loud praises in thine ear,
I can but feel each melting note,
And thank thee with a tear.
SONG.
H, lady! sing that song again,For cold the heart must be
That thrills not to thy melting voice
With echoing harmony:
I cannot pour, as others do,
Loud praises in thine ear,
I can but feel each melting note,
And thank thee with a tear.
There is a music in thy voice,
A mournful, dreamy tone,
That gives thee power to soothe and charm,
With magic all thine own.
Old memories waken from their sleep,
Sweet thoughts of all most dear,—
And I can only own thy spell,
And thank thee with a tear.
A mournful, dreamy tone,
That gives thee power to soothe and charm,
With magic all thine own.
Old memories waken from their sleep,
Sweet thoughts of all most dear,—
And I can only own thy spell,
And thank thee with a tear.
For though within mine own old home
Thy voice was never heard,
Yet dreams of youth and other days
With every note are stirred;
Far distant voices sound again,
Beloved forms are near:
I can but bless thy melting tones,
And thank thee with a tear.
Thy voice was never heard,
Yet dreams of youth and other days
With every note are stirred;
Far distant voices sound again,
Beloved forms are near:
I can but bless thy melting tones,
And thank thee with a tear.
E.
October, 1847,