Page:The Forest Sanctuary.pdf/15

Yet art thou lovely!—Song is on thy hills—
Oh sweet and mournful melodies of Spain,
That lull'd my boyhood, how your memory thrills
The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain!—
Your sounds are on the rocks—that I might hear
Once more the music of the mountaineer!—
And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain
Floats out, and fills the solitary place

But there was silence one bright, golden day,
Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone,
In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay,
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone;
And the red grapes untrodden strew'd the ground,
And the free flocks untended roam'd around:
Where was the pastor?—where the pipe's wild tone?
Music and mirth were hush'd the hills among,