Now slowly o'er the streaks of parting…

Now slowly o'er the streaks of parting day, Her dusky curtain, gentle evening throws; As thro the shades of solitude, I stray, Where sighs the gale accordant to my woes!

Poor Philomela—murmurs in the vale! Soft on her voice the notes of sorrow rise, While distant woodlands bear the plaintive tale, That on the lips of ling'ring echoe dies.

Sadly she breathes the woe inspiring lay, In all the anguish of dispairing love: Inur'd to grief—when I approach the spray, Still melting throes her tender bosom move.

Pensive I listen, while she pours her moan, And think I trace a sorrow like my own!