Sonnet Lxviiiwritten At Frankfort. Poem by Henry Alford

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.