I may not hear those sounds, my child,
They waken thoughts of other days;
And my sad breast with yearnings wild
Heaves with an agony untuned to softer lays.
Sing me a lighter, gladsome air,
And I will bid the smile appear—
Will chase away this gloomy care,
Which eats into my breast and makes a refuge there.
Ah! now the struggle is complete,
The surface shows no warfare now—
Deep in my heart the waters meet,
No eye may read the weary toil upon my brow.
My darling child—my faithful friend,
I still am blest—possessing thee—
And though the glass, which memories lend,
Is dimn'd, alas! with tears—there is a hope for me.