She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre br The rosy rays of evening fell, br As if to feed with their soft fire br The soul within that trembling shell. br The same rich light hung o'er her cheek, br And play'd around those lips that sung br And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak, br If Love could lend their leaves a tongue. br br But soon the West no longer burn'd, br Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew; br And, when to gaze again I turn'd, br The minstrel's form seem'd fading too. br As if her light and heaven's were one, br The glory all had left that frame; br And from her glimmering lips the tone, br As from a parting spirit, came.