Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying —
Here will I lay me and list to thy song;
Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,
Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,
Chase them away-they bring but pain,
And let thy theme be woe again.
Sing on thou mournful lute — day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades! - see, it is fled!
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.
The group that late in garb of Greeks
Sung their light chorus o'er the tide —
Forms, such as up the wooded creeks
Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide,
Or nightly on her glistening sea,
Woo the bright waves with melody —
Now linked their triple league again
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,
Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear
But caught it, on the fatal steep,
She would have paused, entranced, to hear,
And for that day deferred her leap.