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Now the low breeze. 
Which speaks soft music in warm summer-eves. 
Comes sighing through the wood; but ere it pass 
To ripple the calm stream, the giant grass. 
Which one might fancy India’s jungles bore. 
Stays the young wanderer, with her whisper soft; 
And each long streamer, trembling aloft, 
Discourseth tones that murmuringly i^our 
Their music eloquent to listening ears; 
And from the hills, that bend on either shore 
Their gently-sloijing and wood-clothed sides 
Down to the river’s brim. 
Comes, through the twilight dim. 
Blent with the water’s rippling as it glides. 
The last small chirp of many a sleepy bird. 
In varied tones, now near, now distant heard. 
As if disturbed when close within the nest. 
Their small heads warmly hid beneath their wings. 
The wearied warblers had gone to rest. 
Yet hark 1 a gush of melody, that rings 
In rich full cadence o’er the silent eaith; 
A burst of music, whose soft echo brings 
Tears, not of sorrow — smiles apart from mirth. 
Oh! ’tis the silvery-voiced bird of eve. 
The gentle nightingale, that now pours forth 
Her love-lorn lay—so deem they who believe 
That in her brilliant song she doth but grieve. 
