While Echo murmurs in her sea-caves dim,
Hark, the pure spirit of the vernal breeze
Pours the soft music of his vesper hymn,
Wild warbling minstrel of the moon-light seas,
Where Contemplation kneels, a vestal pale,
At Evening's altar bright in lunar beams,
These notes Eolian mingling with the gale,
Wrap the tranced soul in warm seraphic dreams.
Ah! while they swell in Summer's balmy wind,
They seem the accents of the blessed dead,
Floating in air to soothe some kindred mind,
Pining in Sorrow's dark oblivious shade,
Who loves at eve to haunt the echoing cave,
When heavenly sounds steal o'er the dashing wave.