 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
HOW STILL THE HOUR.
How still the hour—how still!
As if night had all her own,
And her sway, without a will,
Were a Queen's upon her throne!
No voice to break the calm,
And but the west wind's breath,
Soft, over beds of balm,
That make sleep akin to death!
As if night had all her own,
And her sway, without a will,
Were a Queen's upon her throne!
No voice to break the calm,
And but the west wind's breath,
Soft, over beds of balm,
That make sleep akin to death!
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Ah, hark! as from afar,
Love's murmur of delight;
'Tis some fair girl's guitar,
That sounds from yonder height.
It breaks the liquid air,
Yet soothes the wound it makes;
And though it breathes of care,
'Tis love alone that wakes.
Love's murmur of delight;
'Tis some fair girl's guitar,
That sounds from yonder height.
It breaks the liquid air,
Yet soothes the wound it makes;
And though it breathes of care,
'Tis love alone that wakes.
Hush! o'er the wave it swells,
And the waters seem to sleep;
A murmur only tells
Of the depth within the deep:
And the west wind, late in play,
Now droops upon the beach,
As if it felt the sway
Of a strain it could not reach!
And the waters seem to sleep;
A murmur only tells
Of the depth within the deep:
And the west wind, late in play,
Now droops upon the beach,
As if it felt the sway
Of a strain it could not reach!
Alas! for the young heart,
Whose song so sweetly takes
Winds, waves, and with an art,
So sovereign, nature wakes:
It mourns the song in vain,
That fails one only ear;
All others it may chain
But the one it fain would hear.
Whose song so sweetly takes
Winds, waves, and with an art,
So sovereign, nature wakes:
It mourns the song in vain,
That fails one only ear;
All others it may chain
But the one it fain would hear.
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |