I'll hang my lyre amid these ancient treess
And while the sad wind moans the chords among
Sweet forest music of the harp & breeze
Shall steal the circumambient air along
And I will sing meantime a low responsive song

What shall I sing? wilt thou of rising moon
Like a broad shield suspended in the east
Wilt thou attend some melancholy tune
While sleeps thy light upon the rivers breast
Whose swelling wavelets sink when by thy beam carest

No beauteous as thou art thy gentle ear
Would call my music rugged & mid clouds
Thou might'st offended hide thy silver car
And draw o'er heaven dark & sombre shrouds
Concealing all its hosts, marshalled in radiant crowds

What shall I sing then? hark that sudden swell!
That rose in the old forests glimmering light
How like the tone of some old convent bell
Borne to the travellers ear at dead of night
Sounding in utter silence with a tenfold might

The rising wind hath stolen it from the strings
Of my sweet lyre suspended in yon tree
And now the wild wood with rich music rings
And thrilling cadences most bold and free
Are pealing round with heavenly melody

I need not sing, the armies of the skys
Nights empress, & the dryad wood-nymphs fair
Would rather list the tones that now arise
And fill with harmony the twilight air
Sweet sounds for all the winds beneath the stars to bear

Then I will sit & listen, not a voice
Disturbs the unbroken stillness of this hour
No nestling bird, with faintly rustling noise
Raises the leaflets of the vernal bower
OR bends the spray where blooms the fruit betokning flowr
Even the chorister of night is still
Sweet Philomel restrains her customed song
Hushed are the murmers of the unseen rill
Creeping through matted grass & weeds along
Silent I too will be these solemn shades among