VII.

But soon the Morn, on many a distant height, Fingers the raven locks of lingering Night; The last dark shadows that precede the day Have stripped the splendour from the Milky Way; And Nature seems disturbed by fitful dreams, As one who shudders when the owlet screams; The painful burden of the Whippoorwill, Like a vague Sorrow, floats from hill to hill; Along the vales the doleful accents run, Where the white vapours dread the burning sun; While human voices stir the haunted air, One sings "the Plough," another warbles "Claire:" The Happy Harvesters, a lightsome throng, Dispersing homewards, prove the excellence of Song.