Song
The
linnet
in
the
rocky
dells,
The
moor-lark
in
the
air,
The
bee
among
the
heather
bells
That
hide
my
lady
fair:
The
wild
deer
browse
above
her
breast;
The
wild
birds
raise
their
brood;
And
they,
her
smiles
of
love
caressed,
Have
left
her
solitude!
I
ween,
that
when
the
grave's
dark
wall
Did
first
her
form
retain,
They
thought
their
hearts
could
ne'er
recall
The
light
of
joy
again.
They
thought
the
tide
of
grief
would
flow
Unchecked
through
future
years;
But
where
is
all
their
anguish
now,
And
where
are
all
their
tears?
Well,
let
them
fight
for
honour's
breath,
Or
pleasure's
shade
pursue—
The
dweller
in
the
land
of
death
Is
changed
and
careless
too.
And,
if
their
eyes
should
watch
and
weep
Till
sorrow's
source
were
dry,
She
would
not,
in
her
tranquil
sleep,
Return
a
single
sigh!
Blow,
west-wind,
by
the
lonely
mound,
And
murmur,
summer-streams—
There
is
no
need
of
other
sound
To
soothe
my
lady's
dreams.
