Lady, if while that chord of thine,
So beautifully strung
To music that seem'd just divine,
Still sweetly round me rung,
I should essay a higher song
Than humblest minstrel may,
Shame o'er my lyre would breathe the wrong,
And lure my hand away.
Forgive me then if I forbear,
Where thou hast done so well,
Nor o'er my harp strings idly dare
What I should feebly tell.
'Tis woman that alone can breathe
These holier fancies free--
Ah, then, be thine the fadeless wreath
I proudly yield to thee.