THO’ LIGHTLY SOUNDS THE SONG I SING.

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.