Through its cloistral deeps afar?
'Tis the Indian's babe, they say,
Fairy stolen; changed a fay;
And still I hear her, calling, calling, calling,
In the mossy woods of Carr!
O hear you, when the weary world is sleeping
(Dim and drowsy every star),
This little one her happy revels keeping
In her halls of shining spar?
Clearer swells her voice of glee,