As those who hear a sweet bird sing,
And love each song it sings the best,
Grieve when they see it taking wing
And flying to another nest:

We, who have heard your voice so oft,
And loved it more than we can tell,
Our hearts grow sad, our voices soft,
Our eyes grow dim, to say farewell.

It is not kind to leave us thus;
Yet we forgive you and combine,
Although you now bring grief to us,
To wish you joy, for auld lang syne.

You ask why I am lonely now,
In all this brilliant scene,
And why I look on beauty's charms,
With cold, unalter'd mien.

You say that, many a loving heart,
Would joy to be my own,
That none of all the human race,
Should ever live alone.

I'll tell you why I'm lonely now,
If grief will let me speak,
And why I glance on woman's charms
With cold, unalter'd cheek.

'Twas in my boyhood's happy days,
I loved a blue-eyed maid;
The light of heaven o'er that young cheek,
In changeful feeling stray'd!

My heart is newly gushing,
With love for thee, with love for thee,
With thoughts as wild and wasteful,
As yonder sea, as yonder sea.

Oh yes! my soul is wretched
With longing pain, with longing pain,
It gives a ceaseless moaning,
Like yonder main, like yonder main.

Thy strange and matchless beauty,
Is like the sea, is like the sea;
Thy face in love or anger,
Is sweet to me, is sweet to me.

Thy maiden soul is precious
As yonder deep, as yonder deep,
Within its glassy clearness,
Bright jewels sleep, bright jewels sleep.

Take back those pledges, dearest maid,
Which once I warmly gave,
For then I dreamed I would be free,
And nevermore thy slave.
Yes! take them back once more, for love
Hath made me only thine;
And I should give these gems away,
Whose heart's no longer mine.

'Tis said the heart can often love,
But that can never be;
Though I have bow'd at other shrines,
I never loved but thee.
I feel that thou art dearer far
Than aught this world can give,
And come what may, come grief or joy,
For only thee I live.

I love thee, and my trembling lyre
Will learn no other strain;
I marvel if thy gentle heart
Will ever cease disdain;
I marvel if our future lives,
Will mingle into one,
And glitter like a happy stream,
In an unclouded sun.

I see that mid a wooing throng,
Thou art a central star,
And vying youths, with noble pride,
Have brought their gifts from far:
I only think the smiles thou giv'st,
So freely unto them,
If given to me, would bless me more,
Than thrones or diadem.

I love thee, and this throbbing heart,

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
With fervor, deep and wild,
Thy beauty's charm most strangely,
My spirit hath beguiled.

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
The Spring's first, freshest flower,
Comes not across my spirit,
With such a holy power.

I love thee--oh! I love thee,
The fibres of my heart
Are closely twined about thee,
As if by magic art.

I see thee--oh! I see thee,
In the sunbeam, in the bud,
In all that's fair in nature,
In all that's bright and good.

I hear thee--oh! I hear thee,

When summer's rosy twilight fell,
Upon yon river's gentle swell,
Leading the spirit by its song,
As through the land it sweeps along;

We watched the stars, those worlds of love,
That swim yon azure seas above--
We heard each other's heart-pulse beat,
In unison divinely sweet.

Your virgin hand was laid in mine,
I gazed into your spirit's shrine:
We lost the sense of stars and earth,
And of the dancing waters' mirth:

We only saw each other then;
We look'd as if no more again,
And our tumultuous hearts should die,

And art thou proud, my darling love?
Thus should it ever be;
For beauty hath, the clearest right,
Of sovereign majesty.

Oh! art thou proud, my darling love!
Then not to do thee wrong,
Thou e'er shalt reign the sole, bright queen,
Within my heart and song.

Hark! the organ's solemn peal
Ascends the lofty fane,
To win the soul's repeal,
From everlasting pain:

To waft the voice of praise
To Him who reigns above,
Which blends with burning lays
Of Seraph's holy love.

Hark! the deep-toned, solemn peal!
Again it strikes the air!
My trembling accents steal
To join the anthem there.

I strive to lift my mind
To God's most holy throne;
And, with my thought refined,
To think on Heaven alone.

But earth-born love intrudes
And brings me back to earth;

O poet, would'st thou make a name
That ne'er will die,
But be coeval with the lights
In yonder sky?

Strike not a single, trembling chord,
In the heart-lyre;
But wake the full and sweet accord
Of every wire.

Of joy, of grief, of hopeless love
And pining care,
Of terror, pain, and deep remorse,
And wild despair.

Of Hope, of Faith, of Piety:
Each fibre move;
But yet the sweetest note shall be
The note of Love.

Strike! poet! strike each quiv'ring chord,
In that strange lyre,