Chapter III

Wake not upon my tuneless ear
Soft music's stealing strain;
It cannot soothe, it cannot cheer
This anguished heart again!
But place the Æolian harp upon
The tomb of her I love;
There, when Heaven shrouds the dying sun,
My weary steps will rove,
While o'er its chords Night pours its breath,
To list the serenade of death
Her silent bourne above!