LXXII.

I see a star--eve’s first-born!--in whose train Past scenes, words, looks, come back. The arrowy spire Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane, Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire; The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake, Till every string of nature’s solemn lyre Is touch’d to answer; its most secret tone Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own.