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作曲 : Ludwig van Beethoven |
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Thy ship must sail, my Henry dear, |
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Fast comes the day, too soon, too sure; |
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And I, for one long tedious year, |
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Must learn thy absence to endure. |
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Come let me by my pencil's aid |
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Arrest thy image ere it flies; |
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And like the fond Corinthian maid, |
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Thus win from Art what Fate denies. |
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And I will hang with fondness warm |
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O'er all that there I pictur'd see; |
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To others but a mimic form, - |
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But oh! My life, my love to me. |
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Or let me sing the song so dear, |
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The song that told thy bosom's fire, |
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When first, our favorite willows near, |
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I bade thee wake thy ready lyre. |
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Yes, o'er and o'er, I'll sing and play |
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The song beneath those willow trees, |
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When thou, alas! Art far away, |
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And nought but thoughts of thee can please. |
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Dear sister Arts! Of power divine, |
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To soothe the heart when cheerless found, |
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And near, with moonlight gleam to shine, |
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When all the world is darkness round. |
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