« AnkstesnisTęsti »
Stirring the air with such an harmony,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
A most gentle maid
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve, (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate
To something more than nature in the grove)
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,
With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds
On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,
Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And now for our dear homes.—That strain again!
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
And bid us listen!
To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,
(The Woman thus her artless story told)