For us the stream of fiction ceased to flow,
For us the voice of melody was mute:
But as soft gales dissolve the dreary snow,
And give the timid herbage leave to shoot,
Heaven's breathing spirit failed not to bestow
Its timely influence—promising fair fruit
Of pensive pleasure and serene content,
From blossoms wild of fancies innocent.
It soothed us—it beguiled us—then, to hear
Once more of troubles wrought by magic spell,