THERE is an air for which I would disown Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies, - A sweet sad air that languishes² 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 reigns³, and I behold⁴ A green land golden in the dying day.

    An old red castle, strong with stony⁵ 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 forth⁶ from her window high； It may be that I knew and found her fair, In some forgotten life, long time gone by.