How sweet is the quiet of eventide
When the throstle his love betrayeth,
And the birches sing by the riverside,
While the elf in the ripples playeth!
Their benison the North hills send,
A chastened peace revealing;
With tender voices harp–tones blend,
Their sighs through dark vales stealing.
In a summer eve he listening stood,
His strings all tuned together,
While music burst from field and wood
Across the dewy heather.
Then all his strings the gift repay,
With a wondrous echo ringing.
Of the throstle’s love, and the elfin play,
And the sighs of the birch–trees, singing;
As every joy and every smart
In Norway’s borders dwelling
Had lain and dreamed upon his heart,
And in each note were swelling.
Hark to that quiet, restful strain!
It soothes the spirit’s crying,
Until like babes we rest again,
As if on lilies lying.
While raptures break across his strings
Our longings soar to heaven;
And every heart its own song sings,
By joy or sorrow riven.
Of haunting grief or cruel blow
The memory is forsaken;
A spell is in his magic bow
The very spring to waken.
Then, blessed Tone–bard, hail to thee!
From heaven thy bow was given:
What floods of joy hast thou set free,
What visions shown of heaven!
To sway far thousands is thy lot,
Strange peoples tell thy story,
While here each blue forget–me–not
Trembles to share thy glory.