How gently falls its light upon the plains,
The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods;
The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn,
And in the bush begins her matin song.
A moment rings the solitary strain,
And then no sound is wafted to the ear,
Save the wild whisper of the dying wind,
Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast.
Sweet voyager of night! whose fairy bark
Sails silently around the dusky earth,