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That from the imperishable source
Then from its dark concealment breaks,
And flowery marsh and meadow laves
With all its labyrinth of waves.
Now every hue and form retires,
For lurking Darkness hastes to fling
Seem woven with the twilight shade: O'er mossy mount and dell embowering,
They stretch their leafy colonnade, And tissued with the arching sky,
Inweave a solemn canopy.
How silent is the gloom ! How deep
The shades that softly close ! It is the hour of Nature's sleep;
It is the world's repose.
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
“ Ah me! ah me! the nightingale's sweet lot!
and of power,
O RARE Sir Nightingale, what love-sick bard,
Keeping in vain his nightly guard,
Thy song of love and gladness ?
Fond paramour in foreign bowers-
In notes that seem to tell its blisses
In set-to-music kisses.
Thy trill, and jug, and gurgling murmur,
Responsive to thy lady-mate;
(For who but she the voice can own, Which doth so sweetly iterate
That same wild, touching monotone?) Then, mellow'd down, an under-strain, Like birdish laughter, as again
The summons comes, a sweet soprana
From thy most fond sultana ;-
The very soul of pleasure,
Who but an unblest lover could
Have fancied set in minor mood ?
Who but the votary of folly
Have call’d it melancholy ?
To me that
Than mirth and inborn happiness,
In living o'er the joys of day.
To me it a long tale unravels
And broken hearts among the flowers;