And then their endless bounds they know.
But when the moon their hollow lights,
And they are swept by balms of spring,
And in their glens, on starry nights,
The nightingales divinely sing;
And lovely notes, from shore to shore,
Across the sounds and channels pour--
Oh! then a longing like despair
Is to their farthest caverns sent;
For surely once, they feel, we were