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Then faintly ceasing - one by one,
That plaintive voice breathed on alone,
Its wild, heart soothing lay:
And then again that moonlight band,
Started as if by magic wand,
In one bold burst away.
The joyous laugh came on the breeze,
And, 'mid the bright o'er-hanging trees,
dance went round; And, as in joyous ring they flew, The smiling nymphs the wild flowers threw,
That clustered on the ground.
Soft as a summer evening's sigh,
From each o'er-hanging bacony,
Low, fervent whisperings fell :
And many a heart upon
that night On fancy's pinions sped its light,
Where holier beings dwell.
Each lovely form the eye might see,
The dark-browed maid of Italy,
With love's own sparkling eyes :
The fairy Swiss — all -- all that night
Smiled in the moon-beam's silvery light,
Fair as their native skies.
Bright stream! how calm upon thy waters rest
The hues of evening, when the empurpled West
Droops its soft wing upon thy floods;
And the dark waving of thy woods Deepens the shadows of thy tranquil breast.
And when the mountains catch, upon their heights,
The last faint blush of glory, and the lights
Of heaven twinkle in the sky;
How sweet the cicada's lone cry Mourns through thy woods in Autumn's mellow nights.
How lovely are thy shores when on the air,
O'er the rich vineyards stealing from afar,
The vintner's careless cheering soars,
Lingering amid thy olive bowers;
And bright in heaven burns the evening star!
Flow on, thou classic stream, thy verdant shore;
Will live within our hearts till life is o'er !
Still will fond memory think of thee,
Thou pride of blooming Tuscany,
And sigh to look upon thy stream once more !
Sweet home of peace! the ling'ring day,
Still plays upon thy turrets grey ;
But silent now the voice of prayer
Which once uprose so sweetly there;
The cricket's fitful
Is mingled with the low wind's moan.
Sadly they seem to wail the fate,
They left thy altars desolate.
Sweet home of peace ! how oft I've stood
Amid thy little solitude,
A truant boy stolen forth to get
The crane's-bill and the violet,-
And listened to the village hum
Which on the quiet air would come,
With the long echoing laugh and shout,
Sent shrilly from the urchin rout.
And oft at Autumn's balmy eve,
When the bright flowers began to leave
The faded grass, and gloriously
The harvest moon went up the sky;
From the far-distant greenwood tree,
The kit's light notes of melody,
Stole upward to the holy ground,
As joyously the dance went round.
Here, when the Sabbath day was done,
And ruddily the Summer sun
Shone o'er the little vale below,
Uprose the hymn so sweet, so slow,
The traveller in the distant glen
Paused on his way to catch again
The lingering notes, till parting day,
Threw its cold shadows o'er his way.
Those days have passed ; and mournfully
The chilly wind goes rustling by,
That finds not there those beauteous flowers
It sported with in happier hours ;
And gentle forms who loved to gaze
Upon their bloom in youthful days,
Faded, like them in their beauty, and died,
And humbly here sleep side by side.
The morning sun is smiling on thy bower,
Bathing in glorious light each tree and flower,
And mossy dell.
The matin chant
Is rising now; but when the evening hymn
Sends its soft echoes in each woodland dim,
And storied haunt,
At that lone hour, Afar from thee, I'll look
the sky, And think each breeze as low it murmurs by,
Comes from thy bower.
And when that star
Which we have loved together, brightly burns
In the clear sky, I'll think on one who mourns
When thou art lone, And o'er thy heart Hope sheds no brightening ray; O sing the notes I loved in happier days —
Days fled and gone.