As the Æolian harp, by night winds stirred,
By turns is silent, or by snatches heard,
So wildly sweet, in fitful fragments rung
The syllables unconscious from his tongue.
THE LETTER.
Sweet land of shadows—dear, delightful shore—
Oh could I seek thee to return no more!
What dreams of joy each misty valley fills,
What scented blossoms fringe the sparkling rills,
What angel visions float through rainbow skies,