Tho’ lightly sounds the song I sing to thee,
Tho’ like the lark's its soaring music be,
Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells
How near such April joy to weeping dwells.
‘ Tis‘ mong the gayest scenes that oftenest steal
Those saddening thoughts we fear, yet love to feel;
And music never half so sweet appears,
As when her mirth forgets itself in tears.
Then say not thou this Alpine song is gay —
It comes from hearts that, like their mountain-lay,
Mix joy with pain, and oft when pleasure's breath
Most warms the surface feel most sad beneath.
The very beam in which the snow-wreath wears
Its gayest smile is that which wins its tears,—
And passion's power can never lend the glow
Which wakens bliss, without some touch of woe.