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Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Away; we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress :
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less ?
And thou—who tell’st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.
MY SOUL IS DARK.
MY SOUL IS DARK-Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again ; If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
"Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain:
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nurst,
And ach'd in sleepless silence long;
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,
And break at once-or yield to song.
I SAW THEE WEEP.
I SAW THEE WEEP—the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
A violet dropping dew :
Beside thee ceased to shine;
It could not match the living rays
That fill’d that glance of thine.