To a Lady

Oh! touch the chord yet once again,
Nor chide me, though I weep the while;
Believe me, that deep seraph strain
Bore with it memory's moonlight smile.

It murmured of an absent friend;
The voice, the air, 't was all her own;
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend
In one mild, murmuring, touching tone.

And days and months have darkly passed,
Since last I listened to her lay;
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast,
Since then, across my weary way.

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear,
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing;
Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear
Will blight the garland thou art wreathing.

'T is sweet, though sad — yes, I will stay,
I cannot tear myself away.
I thank thee, lady, for the strain,
The tempest of my soul is still;
Then touch the chord yet once again,
For thou canst calm the storm at will!