Page:Heath's Book of Beauty 1839.pdf/3



may be the music Wandering from the chords? Does some air Italian, Scarcely need of words?

Is the strain of sadness, When the spirit’s wings Deepen with the shadows Of remembered things?

Are the notes more mirthful, Waking in the heart All those pleasant fancies, Which so soon depart?

Tell me, lovely ladye, Who art leaning there, In the golden shadow Of thy golden hair—

Of what art thou singing? Yet in vain I ask; Many moods doth music Bring its graceful task.

Strange must be the sorrow, Dark must be the hour, Which would not, bright ladye, Own thy harp and power.