Part 3 — CARADORI SINGING.

Let not the heart o'erladen hither fly, Hoping in tears to vent its misery: She soars not like the lark with eager cry, Not hers the robin's notes of love and joy; Nor, like the nightingale's love-descant, tells Her song the truths of the heart's hidden wells. Come, if thy soul be tranquil, and her voice Shall bid the tranquil lake laugh and rejoice; Shall lightly warble, flutter, hover, dance, And charm thee by its sportive elegance. A finished style the highest art has given, And a fine organ she received from heaven: But genius casts not here one living ray; Thou shalt approve, admire, not weep, to-day.