Lament

My soul is sad—oh! dark to-night,
’Tis wrapt in midnight’s gloom;
Wild minstrel! seize thy harp and sing,
As o’er the victor tomb.

For thoughts, more beautiful than dreams,
Within my soul have died,
As fade away the glorious tints
From heaven, at even-tide.

Wild minstrel! seize thy harp, I pray,
And let a dirge arise
In frantic woe—then faintly die
Amid the nightwind’s sighs.

The saddest—deepest—wildest strain
Should wail such visions o’er;
Within the mournful Past entombed,
To be awaked no more.