Page:National Lyrics.pdf/100

84

Dim alabaster gleams—a lonely Swan Warbled his death-chaunt; and a poet stood Listening to that strange music, as it shook The lilies on the wave; and made the pines And all the laurels of the haunted shore Thrill to its passion. Oh! the tones were sweet, Ev'n painfully—as with the sweetness rung From parting love; and to the Poet's thought This was their language.