The delicate sense of hearing. Then from hill
And vale, soft echoes wake to catch the trill
Of warbling nightbird—or the lively air,
When love enlists the serenader’s skill
To make sweet music for the list’ning fair—
Or the sad song breath’d out from heart oppress’d with care.
XXXI.
It was that mourner’s song the mother heard;
It came with soothing to her troubled breast,
And all the elements so lately stirr’d