Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake,
Till every string of nature’s solemn lyre
Is touch’d to answer; its most secret tone
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own.
LXXIII.
And hark! another murmur on the air,
Not of the hidden rills or quivering shades!—
That is the cataract’s, which the breezes bear,
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed