Recitative. 
 Haste, -- haste away, -- and quit the shade,
 Disturb we not the hapless maid!
 'Tis here she sits at night retired,
 In musing trance, like one inspired.
 Her lover lost, her heart's fond theme, 
 Her heavenly bliss, and waking dream,
 Soothing to her this softened breeze,
 This silvery light, these shadowy trees.
 And once 'tis said at midnight hour,
 Her song was heard from yonder bower: --
 Hist, -- hist! for sure a sound I hear,
 She touched her lyre, -- we'll listen near, -- 

Song.
  "Once, my lyre, yet once again,
  With tears I wake thy thrilling strain, 
  Oh! sounds to sacred sorrow dear! 
  I weep, -- but could for ever hear.

  "Cease! nor more past scenes recal,
  Ye plaintive notes, thou dying fall,
  Lyre! beneath thy loved control,
  Lost is my dissolving soul.

  "Round me airy forms appear,
  Seraph songs are in mine ear;
  Spirits blest, oh! bear away
  To happier realms my humble lay! 

  "Still my love may deign to hear 
  Human notes that once were dear;
  Still, one angel-sigh bestow
  For her who weeps, who mourns below."

The song has ceased, -- O sorrow too severe. --
"Visions of bliss!" again the song we hear, 
"Bright opening heavens! and you, ye radiant train! 
"Thou! my lost love! -- I loved not then in vain.
"Bring, bring your golden lyres, your seraph wing,
"Hosanna to the Lord! to Heaven's Almighty King! 
"Gone, gone! ye raptur'd hosts, ye radiant skies! 
"Thou too my love!" -- the song is heard no more,
O pitying heaven! that heart to peace restore.
Thou mourner lone! lest stranger steps invade,
We guard with homage due thy sacred shade.