THE SERENADE.
Reading edition
Beneath a bower, where poplar branches long
Embracing wove Seclusion o’er the abode
Of hermit sage, what time the full moon rode
’Mid spectre clouds her star-paved streets along,
Rose on the listening air a plaintive song,
Sweet as the harmony of an angel’s lyre,
And soft as sweet; breathed heavenward from a quire
Of Beauty, hid the encircling shades among.
Of mysteries high, I ween, that sage had dreamed—
Who now, upstarting, clasps his hands to hear
The mystic notes of Nature’s Anthem clear,
Which holiest bards have heard and heavenly deemed!
’Tis even thus as to that sage it seemed—
’Tis Beauty makes the dreams of Wisdom, dear!