Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,

Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be,

Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells

How near such April joy to weeping dwells.

'Tis 'mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal

Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;

And music never half so sweet appears,

As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.

Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay—

It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,

Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath

Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.

The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears

Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,—

And passion's power can never lend the glow

Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.