The Aziola

'Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh,' Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought; And I, who thought This Aziola was some tedious woman, Asked, 'Who is Aziola?' How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear or hate: And Mary saw my soul, And laughed, and said, 'Disquiet yourself not; 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.'

Sad Aziola! many an eventide Thy music I had heard By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, And fields and marshes wide,-- Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird, The soul ever stirred; Unlike and far sweeter than them all. Sad Aziola! from that moment I Loved thee and thy sad cry.