There is a charm in the pallid cheek, A charm which the tongue can never speak, When the hand of sickness has withered awhile, The rose which had bloomed in the rays of a smile.
There is a charm in the heavy eye, When the tear of sorrow is passing by, Like a summer shower o'er yon vault of blue, Or the violet trembling 'neath drops of dew.
It spreads around a shade as light As daylight blending with the night; Or 'tis like the tints of an evening sky, And soft as the breathing of sorrow's sigh.
