Lays: 20

The night is still:—on meadow and silvery fountain
The moonbeam sleeps, like innocence cradled in love:
With softened smile, it rests on the snow of the mountain,
And tints the sky, like wing of ethereal dove.

A cloud sails by, with lightest and easiest motion,
Now bossed with pearl, now shining with purple and gold,—
It glides away, like vessel afar on the ocean,
And spirits of bliss seem borne on its silvery fold.

A gentle wind, with fragrance of jessamine laden,
Steals faintly on, as longing for calm and repose,
And with it steals the lingering song of the maiden,
Whose lonely heart is lightened by song of its woes.

O, list the song!—if beauty and innocence ever
Have touched thy soul, thy heart will respond to the strain.
The voice of love, of sorrow and longing, will never,
In soothing tones, be lost to thy spirit again.
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