And far sinks the tumult, And takes the soft moan Of billows that shoreward Are lapsingly thrown, When the stars o’er the light-house Set faintly and few, And the waves’ level blackness Is trembling to blue. Wing’d Darling of Sunrise! How oft at that hour, Where the grassy lea lovingly Tufted thy bower, Thy friends the meek cowslips Still folded in sleep, Didst thou burst, and meet Morning Half way from the deep, And circle and soar Till thy small rosy wing Seem’d a sparkle the far-coming Splendour might fling! How lavishly then On the night-hidden hill Didst thou rain down thy carol Deliciously shrill— Still mounting to Heaven, As thou didst rejoice To be nearer the Angels, Since nearest in voice! And thy wild liquid warbling, Sweet Thing! after all, Leaves thee thus aching-breasted, A captive and thrall. For the thymy dell’s freshness and free dewy cloud A barr’d nook in this furnace-heat and suffocating crowd. No pause even here to list thy lay; The human ferment working Must on with unresisted sway In bubbling thousands swept away, Nor near thy cage be left ONE HERMIT-HEARER lurking. Twin minstrels were ye Once in sunshine and shade With _thy_ hymns to the Love-star, _His_ rhymes to the Maid. How sweet was it then, As he linger’d at noon Beneath trees dropping diamonds In shower-freshen’d June, Beloved of the Rainbow! To mark thee on high, Where violet and amber Were arching the sky; And to deem thou wert singing Of comfort to him— Of some Bow yet to brighten His destiny dim! From _thy_ Cloud and _his_ Dream Long the glory is gone, And the dungeon remains To each desolate one: And as vainly as thine would his spirit up-spring, Beating against his prison-bar with faint and baffled wing. SONNET.—TO DENMARK.