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Away; we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress : Will this unteach us to complain ?
Or make one mourner weep the less ? And thou—who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
MY SOUL IS DARK.
My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again; If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain :
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst ; For it hath been by sorrow nurst,
And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,
And break at once- or yield to song
I SAW THEE WEEP.
I saw thee weep—the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
A violet dropping dew:
Beside thee ceased to shine;
That fillid that glance of thine.
As clouds from yonder sun receive
A deep and mellow die, Which scarce the shade of coming eve
Can banish from the sky, Those smiles unto the moodiest mind
Their own pure joy impart ; Their sunshine leaves a glow behind
That lightens o'er the heart.
THY DAYS ARE DONE.
The days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country's strains record
The slaughters of his sword !
The freedom he restored !
Though thou art fall'n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death! The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdain'd to sink beneath : Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath!