Forest leaves :: :: University of Virginia Library

Bird of the twilight hour!
My soul goes forth to mingle with thy hymn,
Which floats like slumber round each closing flower,
And weaves sweet visions through the forest dim.

Where days' sweet warblers rest,
Each gently rocking on the waving spray,
Or hovering the dear fledgelings in the nest
Without one care-pang for the coming day.

Oh, holy bird, and sweet
Angel of this dark forest, whose rich notes
Gush like a fountain in the still retreat,
O'er which a world of mirror'd beauty floats.

My spirit drinks the stream,
Till human cares and passions fade away;
And all my soul is wrapp'd in one sweet dream,
Of blended love, and peace, and melody.

Sweet bird! that wak'st alone
The moonlight echoes of the flowery dells,
When every other wing'd lute is flown,
And insects sleeping all in nodding bells.

I bow my aching head,
And wait the unction of thy voice of love;
I feel it o'er my weary spirit shed,
Like dew from balmy flowers that bloom above.

O! when the loves of earth
Are silent birds, at close of life's long day;
May some pure seraphim of heavenly birth,
Bear on its holy hymn, my soul away.