Angelica, 1

Now that heaven my wish hath granted,
Why be dumb, like mutes inglorious,--
I who, when unhappy, chanted
Of my woe with noise uproarious,

Till a thousand youths despairing
Sang like me with voices hollow,
And the song I sang uncaring
Made still greater mischief follow?

O ye nightingale-like chorus,
That I bear within my spirit,
Let your song of joy rise o’er us
Merrily, that all may hear it.