The winds are asleep in the caves--
in the heart of the far-away mountains;
And here on the meadows and there,
the lazy mists gather and hover;
And the lights of the Fen-Spirits[72] flare
and dance on the low-lying marshes,
As still as the footsteps of death
by the bed of the babe and its mother;
And hushed are the pines, and beneath
lie the weary-limbed boatmen in slumber.
Walk softly,--walk softly, O Moon,
through the gray, broken clouds in thy pathway,
For the earth lies asleep and the boon
of repose is bestowed on the weary.
Toiling hands have forgotten their care;
e'en the brooks have forgotten to murmur;
But hark!--there's a sound on the air!--
'tis the light-rustling robes of the Spirits,
Like the breath of the night in the leaves
or the murmur of reeds on the river,
In the cool of the mid-summer eyes,
when the blaze of the day has descended.
Low-crouching and shadowy forms,
as still as the gray morning's footsteps,
Creep sly as the serpent that charms,
on her nest in the meadow, the plover;
In the shadows of pine-trunks they creep,
but their panther-eyes gleam in the fire-light,
As they peer on the white-men asleep,
in the glow of the fire, on their blankets.
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