I mark the whispers murmuring o'er the tide,
And the light bubbles trembling as they go.
But oh! the magic-spell that lingered here,
In boyhood's golden age, my heart to bless,
With the bright waves that rippled then so clear,
Is lost in ocean's dull forgetfulness.
Gone are the visions of that glorious time—
Gone are the glancing birds I loved so well,
Nor will they wake again their silver chime,
From the deep tomb of night in which they dwell!