I Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Weep no more! oh, weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core. Dry your eyes! oh, dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies,- Shed no tear. Overhead! look overhead! 'Mong the blossoms white and red-- Look up, look up! I flutter now On this fresh pomegranate bough. See me! 'tis this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill. Shed no tear! oh, shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu - I fly - adieu! I vanish in the heaven's blue,- Adieu, adieu! II Ah! woe is me! poor silver-wing! That I must chant thy lady's dirge, And d**h to this fair haunt of spring, Of melody, and streams of flowery verge,- Poor silver-wing! ah! woe is me! That I must see These blossoms snow upon thy lady's pall! Go, pretty page! and in her ear Whisper that the hour is near! Softly tell her not to fear Such calm favonian burial! Go, pretty page! and soothly tell,- The blossoms hang by a melting spell, And fall they must, ere a star wink thrice Upon her closed eyes, That now in vain are weeping their last tears, At sweet life leaving, and these arbours green,- Rich dowry from the Spirit of the Spheres, Alas! poor Queen!