Oh, sing, Arline, and let the echoes die
In deep'ning melody throughout the sky.
Sing on, for hearts are growing pure again
Beneath thy woman's spell; a power divine
You wield to-night to soften and refine.
Faint hearts are growing sad and full of pain,
Proud eyes that have not wept for many years
Are downward cast, and filled with unshed tears.
What though thy heart is in that low, sad song,
They know it not, their souls are borne along
And strangely thrilled by its sweet melody;
They cannot know what thoughts may dwell in thee.
A song may wake the echoes of the soul
And o'er each life the tides of memory roll.
The music dies--she fain would go--but no.
They call her back, again her dark eyes glow
With longing light; once more she stands and sings
The plaintive words whose hidden sorrow rings
Through every heart. These words her lips repeat;
The crowd move not; they listen at her feet.
When nobler lips than mine shall sing
Of faith and holy love;
And angles round thee closer fling
Their glory from above;
Then think thou of my sad, long song,
In realms far, far away;
Though brighter memories round thee throng
To gild each happy day.
When fond lips with their glad, dear thrill,
Shall press thine own once more;
And softly of their own free will
Shall whisper love's sweet lore;
Then think of one who loved thee well
In happy days gone by;
Though round thee glows a golden spell
That carries thee on high.
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