She lays down the book.

How true! how true!—but words are weak In sympathy they give the soul, To music—music, that can speak All the heart's pain and dole; Still making us remember most The love we've lost, the love we've lost.

So weary am I, and so fain To see his face, to feel his kiss Thrill rapture through my soul again, There is no hell like this.— Ah, God! my God, were it not best To give me rest, to give me rest?