Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep

  Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs,

Then will I weep, in anguish weep,

  Till the last heart's drop fills mine eyes.

But if thy sainted soul can feel,

  And mingles in our misery;

Then, then my breaking heart I'll seal—

  Thou shalt not hear one sigh from me.

The beam of morn was on the stream,

  But sullen clouds the day deform;

Like thee was that young, orient beam,

  Like death, alas, that sullen storm!

Thou wert not formed for living here,

  So linked thy soul was with the sky;

Yet, ah, we held thee all so dear,

  We thought thou wert not formed to die.