_Written to an Italian Air._
Ah! faded is that lovely bloom,
And closed in death that speaking eye,
And buried in a green grass tomb,
What once breathed life and harmony!
Surely the sky is all too dark,
And chilly blows the summer air,--
And, where 's thy song now, sprightly lark,
That used to wake my slumb'ring fair?
Ah! never shalt thou wake her more!
And thou, bright sun, shalt ne'er again,
On inland mead, or sea-girt shore,
Salute the darling of the plain.
Maiden! they bade me o'er thy fate
Numbers and strains mellifluous swell,
They knew the love I bore thee great,--
They knew not what I ne'er can tell.
The unstrung heart to others leaves
The music of a feebler woe,
Her numbers are the sighs she heaves,
Her off'ring tears that ever flow.
Where could I gather fancies now?
They 're with'ring on thy lowly tomb,--
My summer was thy cheek and brow,
And perish'd is that lovely bloom!