138 INDIGO-BIRD. 



Falls like a lullaby. Whence comes the song, 

 And what doth give it life? 



Again 'tis here ! 



Some elfin lover tunes his golden lute, 

 And, 'neath the beamings of the love-sick moon, 

 Soft woos his fav'rite fay. 



More loud it swells, 



While echo, wakened from her dreamless sleep, 

 Flings back in ecstacy the silvery lay; 

 'Tis past and all is still. 



Oh ! once again 



Delight with me thy strain, which, like the lutes 

 Swept by the fingers of the heedless wind, 

 Gives forth strange music. Vain I gaze around, 

 Yet naught I see ! But now from yon tall beech, 

 Whose coronal of leaves is high in air, 

 Flitting betwixt me and the azure sky, 

 A form fast flies. Ah ! sylvan one ! 'twas thou 

 Who charmed me all unknowing. 



He has gone 



To his lone mate, and by her gentle side 

 Now rests in slumber. 



Peace be with thee, bird ! 



The Indigo-bird should be kept in a 

 heated room during the winter; it being 



