Some have sought a distant home,
Gone, 'midst other scenes to roam;
One is racked with wasting pain,
And may never sing again;
While I hear thy feeble moan,
I can never sing alone;
Still, we welcome blooming spring,
But there's no one here to sing.
Come then, little singing bird,
Let thy cheerful voice be heard;
Come, and pour thy melting lays
Where thou didst in better days;
Strive each drooping heart to cheer,
Strive to dry the falling tear,
Strive to soothe each throbbing breast,
Hushing troubled minds to rest.

"My harp is on the willows hung.
And the strings all out of tune,"

And dost thou listen for a song,
From this frail harp, neglected long?
My harp, alas! is drenched in tears,
Rent by contending hopes and fears.
Pale trembling fingers sweep the strings
Whene'er my muse, in sadness, sings;
For, prostrate now, before me lays
The playmate of bright joyous days;
She was my early childhood's pet,
Nor can my bleeding heart forget