AN OLD TUNE. GERARD DENERVAL.
THERE is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, - A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, Two hundred years are mist that rolls away； The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold A green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers, The windows gay with many coloured glass； Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, A lady looks forth from her window high； It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.