The varying cadence of the far cascade,
Now high, now low, as sweeps the breeze along,
Now calmly faint, now tremulously strong;
There is a spirit thrills the sense, the soul,
Till the full heart spurns reason’s cold control,
Steeps anxious care and coward fear in sleep,
And melts the bosom into raptures deep!
Such have we known full oft in that lone dell,
How dear—how dear—the thought—our hearts can tell!
. . . . . . . . . . .