Gaily she struck the sweet guitar,
The maiden fair as a beautiful star;
And her soft voice fell on charmed ears
Like a seraph’s song from the upper spheres
Joyous and blithe is the song she sings,
As the morning lark on his heavenward wings;
Little the list’ners dream that rest
Never again shall dwell in her breast;
Little they dream, while that strain she is waking
That her heart with a secret grief is breaking.

Sweet were the words from her lips that fell,
As the mocking-bird’s song in the hazel dell;
Like the honey of Hybla her words were fraught
With sweets from the choicest flowers sought;
Gloom from her beaming presence fled,
Mirth and joy were around her shed;
Little they know of the poisoned dart
That rankles deep in her bleeding heart;
Little they know that her beaming eye
Tells but a hollow mockery.

Bright were the jewels that flashed on her brow
As the gleam of the stars on the mountain snow,
And the trembling lustre of costly pearls
Beams through the waves of her golden curls,
As with queenly step she passes along,
The loveliest one of that beautiful throng;
But her heart with inward grief is bowed,
And her cheek is as pale as the dead man’s shroud,
And tears will start in her orbs of blue,
Like a rose that weepeth with morning dew.

A gentle heart that she once had known
Had throbbed for her and for her alone.
High and holy in him was her trust—
Alas! it has turned to ashes and dust!
Can she her sacred vows recall,
Can she, can she forget them all?
Never! although with an aching breast
She ever obeys the stern behest,
Yielding with smiles to her bitter lot;
Meekly yielding and murmuring not;
The memory of departed hours
Shall weave her garland of withered flowers,
But the hope that cheered her soul is flown,
And she moves ’mid the throng, alone, alone.
Her lips may smile, but her eye is chill,
And her laugh may ring, but her heart is still;
Her bosom is now the canker’s prey—
She is passing away, passing away.