At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour, I have mused in a sorrowful mood, On the wind-shaken weeds that embosom the bower, Where the home of my forefathers stood....
Star that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary labourer free! If any star shed peace, 'tis thou, That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love....
O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;...
Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you 're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing, Wed, or cease to woo. ...
Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. ...