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Once more the holy starlight Sleeps calm upon thy breast, Whose brightness bears no token more Of man's unrest.

Flow, and let free-born music Flow with thy wavy line, While the stock-dove's lingering loving voice Comes blent with thine.

And the green reeds quivering o'er thee, Strings of the forest-lyre, All fill'd with answering spirit-sounds, In joy respire.

Yet, midst thy song's glad changes, Oh! keep one pitying tone For gentle hearts, that bear to thee Their sadness lone.