Far through the heaven's ethereal blue, Wafted on Spring's light airs you come, With blooms, and flowers, and genial dew, From climes where Summer joys to roam; O! welcome to your long-lost home! "Child of the melancholy song!" Who lov'st the lonely woodland glade To mourn, unseen, the boughs among, When Twilight spreads her pensive shade, Again thy dulcet voice I hail! O pour again the liquid note That dies upon the evening gale! For Fancy loves the kindred tone; Her griefs the plaintive accents own. She loves to hear thy music float At solemn Midnight's stillest hour, And think on friends for ever lost, On joys by disappointment crost, And weep anew Love's charmful power! Then Memory wakes the magic smile, Th' impassion'd voice, the melting eye, That wont the trusting heart beguile, And _wakes again_ the hopeless sigh. Her skill the glowing tints revive Of scenes that Time had bade decay; She bids the soften'd Passions live-- The Passions urge again their sway. Yet o'er the long-regretted scene Thy song the grace of sorrow throws; A melancholy charm serene, More rare than all that mirth bestows, Then hail, sweet Bird, and hail thy pensive tear! To Taste, to Fancy, and to Virtue dear! The spreading dusk at length reminded Adeline of her distance from the inn, and that she had her way to find through a wild and lonely wood: she bade adieu to the syren that had so long detained her, and pursued the path with quick steps. Having followed it for some time, she became bewildered among the thickets, and the increasing darkness did not allow her to judge of the direction she was in. Her apprehensions heightened her difficulties: she thought she distinguished the voices of men at some little distance, and she increased her speed till she found herself on the sea-sands over which the woods impended. Her breath was now exhausted--she paused a moment to recover herself, and fearfully listened: but instead of the voices of men, she heard faintly swelling in the breeze the notes of mournful music.--Her heart, ever sensible to the impressions of melody, melted with the tones, and her fears were for a moment lulled in sweet enchantment. Surprise was soon mingled with delight when, as the sound advanced, she distinguished the tone of that instrument, and the melody of that well-known air, she had heard a few preceding evenings from the shores of Provence. But she had no time for conjecture--footsteps approached, and she renewed her speed. She was now emerged from the darkness of the woods, and the moon, which shone bright, exhibited along the level sands the town and port in the distance. The steps that had followed now came up with her, and she perceived two men; but they passed in conversation without noticing her, and as they passed she was certain she recollected the voice of him who was then speaking. Its tones were so familiar to her ear, that she was surprised at the imperfect memory which did not suffer her to be assured by whom they were uttered.