The Kiqhtinqale. 
Far from thy myrtle-groves, with what keen 
pleasure 
To night and silence trill’st thou here thy 
song ! 
While pale tranced Dian lingers o’er the 
measure, 
And echo fain each cadence would prolong. 
Sweet bird, of love and callow nestlings 
dreaming 
Pour’st thou thy notes in glad nay gleeful 
mood ? 
Winged with strange pow’r through dewy 
foliage streaming 
Jocund and joyborn runs their hurrying 
flood ? 
Not so; thy strain yet rings of old-world 
trouble 
Of Tereus and that nameless Daulian grief; 
Its murm’rous tones their woe renew, redouble, 
Nor time nor distance lend thy pains relief. 
Thy plaint, o’er oaks and moonlit waters 
pealing. 
Wells from a heart with endless anguish 
torn ; 
Afar I listen rapt ; it still comes stealing 
From darkling glades, though gleams now 
saffron morn. 
