’Tis the shadow of the tomb
Falling o’er the summer-bloom—
O’er the flush of love and life
Passing with a sudden strife;
’Tis the low prophetic breath
Murmuring from that house of death,
Whose faint whisper thus their hearts can melt,
—“I too, Shepherds! in Arcadia dwelt.”
THE WANDERING WIND.
The Wind, the wandering Wind