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Be by wave or pebble made;
But, unresolved of doubt, they say
Thus it tunes its pipe alway.
Wood-ward, brave Fancy! Over-head
The Sun is waxing fiery red;
No cloud is floating on the sky
To interrupt his brilliancy,
Or mar the glory of his ray
While journeying on his lucid way.
But here, within this forest chase,
We'll wander for a fleeting space,
'Mid walks beneath whose clustering leaves
Bright noontides wane to sober eves;
And where, 'mong roots of timbers old,
Pale flowers are seen like virgins cold—
(Virgins fearful of the Sun,
Most beautiful to look upon)—
In some soft and mossy nook,
Where dwells the wanderer's eager look.
Until the Sun hath sunken down
Over the folly-haunting town,
And curious Stars are forth to peer
With frost-like brilliance, silvery clear,
From the silent firmament—
Here be our walk of sweet content.
