All silent—like a half forgotten tone
Seems but the echo of a broken chime,
As if a part of memory, pilgrim-like,
Had gone in quest of all, and died away
Amid the distant traces of the past.
The gentle breeze comes from its groves of spice,
And fragrance bears throughout the Virgin air;
And hark! the woodland music—warblings soft
Steal on the gladdened ear—from every hedge,
From every forest dim, a voice proceeds