stening the silver music that rings out From the pale mountain bells, swayed by the wind. Or sit in rocky clefts above the sea, While one by one the evening stars shine forth Among the gathering clouds, that strew the heavens Like floating purple wreaths of mournful nightshade!
THE MINSTREL'S GRAVE.
Oh let it be where the waters are meeting, In one crystal sheet, like the summer's sky bright! Oh let it be where the sun, when retreating, May throw the last glance of his vanishing light. Lay me there! lay me there! and upon my lone pillow Let the emerald moss in soft starry wreaths swell; Be my dirge the faint sob of the murmuring billow, And the burthen it sings to me, nought but "farewell!"
Oh let it be where soft slumber enticing, The cypress and myrtle have mingled their shade: Oh let it be where the moon at her rising, May throw the first night-glance that silvers the glade. Lay me there! lay me there! and upon the green willow Hang the harp that has cheered the lone minstrel so w