 | Poems |  |
61
BY NIGHT.
Lo! the calm Moon! She cometh like a saint,
To charm the passionate turmoil into rest,
Till to the sense of airy phantasy,
The pealing surges struggle with strange awe,
Pierced by the effluence of the rainbow-span,
That girds the Thunderer with an arch of tears.
To charm the passionate turmoil into rest,
Till to the sense of airy phantasy,
The pealing surges struggle with strange awe,
Pierced by the effluence of the rainbow-span,
That girds the Thunderer with an arch of tears.
Those heavenly beams, so eloquently fair,
Shine on the frenzied, maddening mass beneath,
Like the ineffable pity in the eyes
Of the disowned and melancholy Christ,
When, from the Ruler's Porch, he mutely looked
On the blaspheming crew that cursed his love,
In the thronged streets of doomed Jerusalem.
Shine on the frenzied, maddening mass beneath,
Like the ineffable pity in the eyes
Of the disowned and melancholy Christ,
When, from the Ruler's Porch, he mutely looked
On the blaspheming crew that cursed his love,
In the thronged streets of doomed Jerusalem.
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