The shades of eve are gathering slowly round,
And silence hangs o'er meadow, grove, and hill,
Save one lone voice, that, with continuous sound,
Calls thro' the deep'ning twilight — Whippoorwill .

Faintly is heard the whispering mountain breeze;
Faintly the rushing brook that turn'd the mill:
Hush'd is the song of birds — the hum of bees; —
The hour is all thine own, sad Whippoorwill!

No more the woodman's axe is heard to fall:
No more the ploughman sings with rustic skill.
As if earth's echoes woke no other call,
Again, and yet again, comes Whippoorwill!

Alas! enough; before, my heart was sad;
Sweet bird! thou makest it sadder, sadder still.
Enough of mourning has my spirit had;
I would not hear thee mourn, poor Whippoorwill .

Thoughts of my distant home upon me press,
And thronging doubts, and fears of coming ill;
My lone heart feels a deeper loneliness,
Touch'd with that plaintive burthen — Whippoorwill .

Sing to the village lass, whose happy home
Lies in yon quiet vale, behind the hill;
But, doom'd far, far from all I love to roam,
Sing not to me, oh gentle Whippoorwill .

Lov'd ones! my children! Ah, they cannot hear
My voice that calls to them! An answer shrill,
A shrill, unconscious answer rises near,
Repeating, still repeating, Whippoorwill!

Another name my lips would breathe; — but then
Such tender memories all my bosom fill,
Back to my sorrowing breast it sinks again!
Hush, or thou'lt break my heart, sad Whippoorwill .