From Lamartine

For ever drifting towards shores unknown, In endless night, returnless, borne away, We never, in Time’s sea our anchor thrown, Pause for a single day!

O Lake, I come alone to sit by thee, Upon the stone where thou didst see her rest, Hardly a year ago, it seems, when she Looked on thy wavy breast!

Thus didst thou threaten to those stooping rocks, Thus on their wave-worn sides thou then didst beat, Thus did thy foam, aroused by windy shocks, Play round my darling’s feet!

One evening, as we floated on the calm, And not a sound was heard afar or near, Save oary music mingling firm and clear, With thy soft rippling psalm,—

Then, all at once, sweet tones, too sweet for earth, Awoke the sleeping echoes into bliss, The waves grew hushed, the voice I loved gave birth To such a strain as this: