The Leaves That Rustled On This Oak-Crowned Hill

The leaves that rustled on this oak-crowned hill, And sky that danced among those leaves, are still; Rest smooths the way for sleep; in field and bower Soft shades and dews have shed their blended power On drooping eyelid and the closing flower; Sound is there none at which the faintest heart Might leap, the weakest nerve of superstition start; Save when the Owlet's unexpected scream Pierces the ethereal vault; and ('mid the gleam Of unsubstantial imagery, the dream, From the hushed vale's realities, transferred To the still lake) the imaginative Bird Seems, 'mid inverted mountains, not unheard.      Grave Creature! whether, while the moon shines bright On thy wings opened wide for smoothest flight, Thou art discovered in a roofless tower, Rising from what may once have been a lady's bower; Or spied where thou sitt'st moping in thy mew At the dim centre of a churchyard yew; Or, from a rifted crag or ivy tod Deep in a forest, thy secure abode, Thou giv'st, for pastime's sake, by shriek or shout, A puzzling notice of thy whereabout May the night never come, nor day be seen, When I shall scorn thy voice or mock thy mien!      In classic ages men perceived a soul Of sapience in thy aspect, headless Owl! Thee Athens reverenced in the studious grove; And, near the golden sceptre grasped by Jove, His Eagle's favourite perch, while round him sate The Gods revolving the decrees of Fate, Thou, too, wert present at Minerva's side: Hark to that second larum! far and wide The elements have heard, and rock and cave replied.