And there but low sweet sounds are heard—
The whisper of the reed,
The plashing trout, the rustling bird,
The scythe upon the mead;
Yet, through the murmuring osiers near,
There steals a step which mortals fear.
’Tis not the stag, that comes to lave
At noon his panting breast;
’Tis not the bittern, by the wave
Seeking her sedgy nest;