That swells, and floats, and dies,
Leaving no echo to the summer woods
Of the rich breathings and impassion’d sighs
Which thrill’d their solitudes.
Yet, yet remember me!
Friends! that upon its murmurs oft have hung,
When from my bosom, joyously and free,
The fiery fountain sprung.
Under the dark rich blue
Of midnight heavens, and on the star-lit sea,