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Moveless all droop, in slumberous quiet;
How beautiful they be!
And blissful as soft infants lulled
Upon a mother's knee.
Far down yon dell the melody
Of a small brook is audible;
The shadow of a thread-like tone,—-
It murmurs over root and stone,
Yet sings of very love its fill;—
And hark! even now, how sweetly shrill
It trolls its fairy glee,
Skywards unto that pure bright one;
O! gentle heart hath she,
For, leaning down to earth, with pleasure,
She lists its fond and prattling measure.
It is indeed a silent night
Of peace, of joy, and purest light;—
No angry breeze, in surly tone,
Chides the old forest till it moan;
Or breaks the dreaming of the owl,
That, warder-like, on yon gray tower,
Feedeth his melancholy soul
With visions of departed power;
