The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scatter'd
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken
Sweet tones are remember'd not；
When the lips have spoken
Lov'd accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute—
No song but sad dirges
Like the wind through a ruin'd cell
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.
When hearts have once mingl'd
Love first leaves the well-built nest；
The weak one is singl'd
To endure what it once possesst.
O Love！ who bewailest
The frailty of all things here
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle your home and your bier？
Its passions will rock thee
As the storms rock the ravens on high；
Bright reason will mock thee
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter
When leaves fall and cold winds come.