Poor human faith a-blight and chill must die.
O birdlings, blossoms, leaflets, flow'rs,
Give forth chaste spirits to enchant the air;
Let silver'd mem'ries glad the lonely hours,
And crown my picture fair.
The night comes on apace;
The cricket's chirp, the woodland murmur's swell,
Bid nature's changeling melodies efface
The glamour of yon phantom spell.