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Poem by Walter Scott
Soft spread the southern sumer night Her veil of darksome blue; Ten thousand stars combined to light The terrace of Saint Cloud. The evening breezes gently sigh'd, Like breath of lover true, Bewailing the deserted pride And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud. The drum's deep roll was heard afar, The bugle wildly blew Good-night to Hulan and Hussar That garrison Saint Cloud. The startled Naiads from the shade With broken urns withdrew And silenced was that proud cascade, The glory of Saint Cloud. We sate upon its steps of stone, Nor could its silence rue When waked, to music of our own, The echoes of Saint Cloud. Slow Seine might hear each lovely note Fall light as summer dew While through the moonless air they float Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud. And sure a melody more sweet His waters never knew, Though music's self was wont to meet With Princes at Saint Cloud. Nor then, with more delighted ear, The circle round her drew, Than ours, when gather'd round to hear Our songstress at Saint Cloud. Few happy hours poor mortals pass-âˆ” Then give those hours their due, And rank among the foremost class Our evenings at Saint Cloud.
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