Begone, begone thou truant tear That trembles on my cheek, And far away be born the sigh That more than words can speak. And cease, my merry harp, to wake The song of former days, And perish all the minstrel lyre That framed these happy lays. She loves me not who woke these strains, Then, wherefore should they be? True, she doth smile as she was wont, But doth she smile on me Her neck with kindly arch ne'er bends When listing to my song, Nor does her passion-moving lips The trembling notes prolong. Time was, indeed, when she would hang Enamoured on my theme ; But ah, that happy time hath fled, And vanished like a dream. Peace, thou proud heart, and prate no more, Thy sun ofjoy hath set, And dark and starless is the sky The troubadour has met. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AN ODE, PARAPHRASED: THE CUP by ANACREON AT FREDERICKSBURG [DECEMBER 13, 1862] by JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY THE OLD HOKUM BUNCOMBE by ROBERT EMMET SHERWOOD BEYOND THE ATOM by JANICE BLANCHARD A FOREIGN TONGUE by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |