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.