Song.—Thy form was fair

Thy form was fair, thine eye was bright,

    Thy voice was melody;

Around thee beam'd the purest light

    Of love's own sky.

Each word that trembled on thy tongue

    Was sweet, was dear to me;

A spell in those soft numbers hung

    That drew my soul to thee.

Thy form, thy voice, thine eyes are now

    As beauteous and as fair;

But though still blooming is thy brow,

   Love is not there.

And though as sweet thy voice be yet,

   I treasure not the tone;

It cannot bid my heart forget—

   Its tenderness is gone!