To a Lady whose Singing resembled that of an Absent Sister

Oh! touch the chord yet once again, Nor chide me though I weep the while; Believe me, that deep seraph strain Bore with it memory's moonlight smile,

It murmur'd of an absent friend; The voice, the air, 'twas all her own; And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.

And days and months have darkly pass'd Since last I listen'd to her lay; And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, Since then, across my weary way.

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, Like seraph-whispers lightly breathing; Hush, busy Memory, Sorrow's tear Will blight the garland thou art weaving,

'Tis sweet, though sadyes, I will stay, I cannot tear myself away, I thank thee, lady, for the strain, The tempest of my soul is still; Then touch the chord yet once again, For thou canst calm the storm at will.