COME sing me the song that once gilded my gloom,
And the heart unsubdued till that moment subdued,
That with its red rose caused the rose-tree to bloom,
That long year after year without blossoms had stood.

With thy hand on my hand, and thy cheek by my cheek,
In thy wild and weird tones, be that lay again sung,
And the bleak world to me, shall no longer be bleak,
And this heart, wrung by anguish, no longer be wrung.

Then over thy grace, shall thy voice throw a grace;
And that image which long had its home in my breast,
Be robed in a splendour, no pencil could trace,
And possest of a charm by no other possest.

Than its red, shall thy lip then a richer dye show,
And with beams brighter still, shall thy hazel eyes burn;
And thy beauty, deep down in my spirit, shall glow,
And my life to a drop of pure ecstasy turn.

Shall the boon then be mine? shall that music reward
Thus the faith of a heart that yet leapt at its strain?
Ah, broken's the spell of that song I oft heard,
And so—so thro' thy dark guile to me shall remain.