And art thou dead? Thou very sweetest bird That ever made a moonlight forest ring! Its wild unearthly music mellowing! Shall thy rich notes no more, no more be heard? Never! Thy beautiful romantic themes, That made it mental heaven to hear thee sing, Lapping the enchanted soul in golden dreams, Are mute! Ah! vainly did Italia fling Her healing ray around thee — blossoming With blushing flowers, long wedded to thy verse! Those flowers, those sunbeams, but adorn thy hearse; And the warm gales, that faintly rise and fall, In music's clime — themselves so musical, Shall chaunt the minstrel's dirge far from his father's hall.
