 | Euphrenia or the Test of Love |  |
XLV.
Hark! it is surely fancy. No;Again I hear that strain;
Borne on the idle wind it floats
Across the moonlit main;
A sound of blended voices,
That charms the listening ear;
Now fading into silence, now
Melodiously clear;
Keeping responsive echo
Unto the dipping oar,
A joyous party slowly gains
The scarce-distinguished shore.
| Euphrenia or the Test of Love | |