Which, but for such restraint, had long since fled.
Beyond the swampy meadow, fringed with flags,
The ancient forest waves its gaudy head,
O’er which the eagle takes his lonely way—
The mighty hunter of the upper air.
There, in the mossy dells, where all is still,
Save when uncertain murmurs come and go
Along the solemn arches of the wood—
Like whispers in a lonely lane at dark,
Or soothing hum of home-returning bee—