SO deep this sylvan silence, strange and sweet,
Its dryad-guardian, virginal Peace, can hear
The pulses of her own pure bosom beat;
And her low voice echoed by elfin rills,
And far-off forest fountains, sparkling clear
'Mid haunted hollows of the hoary hills;
No breeze, nor wraith of any breeze that blows,
Stirs the charmed calm; not even yon gossamer-chain,
Dew-born, and swung 'twixt violet and wild rose,
Thrills to the airy elements' subtlest breath;
Such marvellous stillness almost broods like pain
O'er the bushed sense, holding dim hints of death!
What shadows of sound survive, the waves' far sigh,
Drowsed cricket's chirp, or mock-bird's croon in sleep,
But touch this sacred, soft tranquillity
To yet diviner quiet: the fair land
Breathes like an infant lulled from deep to deep
Of dreamless rest, on some wave-whispering strand?
