There is an antique song, a quaint old tune,
Hidden within my heart, divinely sweet;
The theme is of a delicate conceit,
Vague and mysterious as some Northern Rune,

A sound that Donizetti in his June
Might still have found, tender yet incomplete —
A strain that spirits might alone repeat,
Or larks invisible that haunt the moon.

Whene'er its magic melody I hear,
Now calm with peace, now tremulous with dread,
I picture to my soul a face once dear;
Its graceful rhythm seems a fawn-like tread,
Past sighs return and gentle ghosts appear:
Oh wondrous song! art thou that voice now dead?