The voice of the night-bird that sends a thrill
To the heart of the leaves when the winds are still!
—I hear them!—around me they rise, they swell,
They claim back my spirit with hope to dwell!
They come with a breath of the fresh spring-time,
And waken my youth in its hour of prime!
The white foam dashes high!—away, away,
Shroud my green land no more, thou blinding spray!
—'Tis there!—down the mountains I see the sweep
Of the chesnut forests, the rich and deep!
With the burden and glory of flowers they wear,
Floating upborne on the blue summer-air,
And the light pouring through them in tender gleams,
And the flashing forth of a thousand streams!
—Hold me not, brethren! I go, I go
To the hills of my youth, where the myrtles blow,
To the depths of the woods where the shadows rest
Massy and still, on the greensward's breast,
To the rocks that resound with the water's play—
—I hear the sweet laugh of my Fount!—give way!
Give way!—the booming surge, the tempest's roar,
The sea-bird's wail, shall vex my soul no more!
