Virgil

As when above the heated fields the moon Hovers to spread its veil of summer frost, The brook between its narrow banks half lost Glitters in pale light, murmuring its low tune;

The nightingale pours forth her secret boon, Whose strains the lonely traveller accost; He sees his dear one's golden tresses tossed, And time forgets in love's entrancing swoon;

And the orphaned mother who has grieved in vain Upon the tomb looks to the silent skies And feels their white light on her sorrow shine;

Meanwhile the mountains laugh, and the far-off main, And through the lofty trees a fresh wind sighs: Such is thy verse to me, Poet divine!

LEVIA GRAVIA.