The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.
Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
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