It is the soul of thee, and not the form,
And not the face, I yearn-to in my sleep.
And not the face, I yearn-to in my sleep.
He is our friend, though morbidly we shun
His tender touch,—a cure for every ill.
His tender touch,—a cure for every ill.
I die to serve thee, and for this alone,—
To be thy bard-elect, from day to day,—
I would forego the right to fill a throne.
To be thy bard-elect, from day to day,—
I would forego the right to fill a throne.
I would not lose the power to shed a tear
For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign.
For all the wealth of Plutus and his reign.
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