Where day steals away with a young bride’s blush,
To the soft, green couch of night,
And the moon throws o’er with a holy hush,
Her curtains of gossamer light.
The seraph that hides in the hemlock dell,
Oh! sweetest of birds is she,
Fills the dewy breeze with a trancing swell
Of melody rich and free.
Where Nature still gambols in maiden pride
By valley and pine-plumed hill,