Page:National Lyrics.pdf/221



From a ruin thou art singing, Oh! lonely, lonely bird! The soft blue air is ringing, By thy summer music stirr'd; But all is dark and cold beneath, Where harps no more are heard: Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath, Oh! lonely, lonely bird?

Thy song flows richly swelling, To a triumph of glad sounds, As from its cavern dwelling A stream in glory bounds!