INDIGO-BIRD. 137 



which may give some idea of the sweet- 

 ness of his strain in the lonely hours of 

 night. 



To THE INDIGO FINCH. 



'Tis the deep silence of a summer night, 

 A night in June. How solemn seems the scene. 

 The wood is hushed in slumber, while the trees 

 'Tween whose shut leaves the night wind playful 



steals, 



Kissing them into music, sadly breathe 

 A mournful requiem o'er the vanished day. 

 The brook, that through the meadow gleaming 



creeps 



And 'neath the wood, low ripples twixt the moss 

 Which interwoven lines its shelving sides, 

 Or pattering o'er the pebbles in its bed, 

 Hath changed its cadence to a lower tone, 

 More fitting to the hour. 



The flowers have closed their petals and bowed 



down 

 Their bells in slumber And the wide-spread 



fields 

 Lay like a burial place of by-gone dead. 



Hark ! some sweet strain, 

 In mellow cadence, on the ear of night 

 12* 



