Henry Alford

Sonnet LXVIIIWritten At Frankfort.

No voice is heard along the city--street Of men, nor tramp of horse; but the night long Yon nightingale fills all the air with song. I am a stranger here, but no less sweet Those heavenly notes, my raptured hearing greet, Than when I stood my native dales among, And the sweet blossom of the hawthorn flung Its incense on my path, and at my feet The glow--worm glistened. Bird of restless joy! When first I learned to love this peopled earth, I past beside thy haunts, a roving boy, And thou wert mingled in my spirit's mirth; But now I am spell--fastened by thy strain, And oft return to listen once again.