At night when stars shine bright and clear,
The soft winds on the casements blow,
And round the chamber rustle low,
Like one unseen, whose voice we hear,
On tiptoe stealing to and fro--
At night when clouds are dark and drear,
They moan about the lattice sore,
And murmur sighs for evermore,
That fill us with a chilly fear,
Oft glancing at the well-barr'd door--
At night, in moonlight or in gloom,
They wander round the drooping thatch,
Like some poor exile thence to catch
Fond glimpses of each well-loved room,
And sigh beside the unraised latch--
O unseen Wind! art thou alone,
Thus breathing round the sleeping land?
Or roams with thee a spirit band,
Blending sad voices with thine own,--
Voices that once with cheerful tone
Made music round the sleeping land?
ORAN (from the Greenhouse, unperceived).
Ah! her dear voice. Ho
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