 | Alfred |  |
13
SCENE IV.
Alfred.Ha! day declines apace.
What anxious thoughts, in this wild solitude,
My darker hours must know? And now, the veil
Of evening, o'er these murmuring woods around,
A lonely horror spreads—But soft: the breeze
Is dumb! and more than midnight silence reigns!
Why beats my bosom?—Music! Shield me, heaven!
Whence should it come?—Hark!—now the measur'd strains,
In awful sweetness warbling, strike my sense,
As if some wing'd musician of the sky
Touch'd his ethereal harp.
| Alfred | |