Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying—

  Here will I lay me and list to thy song;

Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,

  Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,

Chase them away-they bring but pain,

And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute—day is fast going,

  Soon will its light from thy chords die away;

One little gleam in the west is still glowing,

  When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.

Mark, how it fades!-see, it is fled!

Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.

The group that late in garb of Greeks

  Sung their light chorus o'er the tide—

Forms, such as up the wooded creeks

  Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide,

Or nightly on her glistening sea,

Woo the bright waves with melody—

Now linked their triple league again

Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,

Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear

  But caught it, on the fatal steep,

She would have paused, entranced, to hear,

  And for that day deferred her leap.