II.
Would they but come, the coloured words and brave, Each murmuring of the hour that gave him birth, How one was sad, one merry and one grave; But all the sorrow and mirth, Blent in a symphony, should be your slave And sing the joys of earth.
Would they but come, the coloured words and brave, Each murmuring of the hour that gave him birth, How one was sad, one merry and one grave; But all the sorrow and mirth, Blent in a symphony, should be your slave And sing the joys of earth.