  Sad songstress of the night, no more I hear Thy soften'd warblings meet my pensive ear, As by thy wonted haunts again I rove; Why art thou silent? wherefore sleeps thy lay? For faintly fades the sinking orb of day, And yet thy music charms no more the grove. The shrill bat flutters by; from yon dark tower The shrieking owlet hails the shadowy hour; Hoarse hums the beetle as he drones along, The hour of love is flown! thy full-fledg'd brood No longer need thy care to cull their food, And nothing now remains to prompt the song: But drear and sullen seems the silent grove, No more responsive to the lay of love. BION. Vignette
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