The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly In Two Volumes |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
VIII.
Midnight was on the earth; the zenith moon
Shone out in cloudless pomp, broad, lovely, lone
The sounds of man were silent; on the hill,
Along the vale, all but the breeze was still,
And it was but the breath that served to shake
Sighs and sweet murmurings from the hawthorn brake;
The vault above was sapphire, heavenly blue,
The brightness that the eye seems looking through
When the eye is half mind; and wild, and far,
As if it found a guide in each lone star,
It wanders through the heaven, rapt, dreaming on
To the bright gates where all it loved are gone.
Shone out in cloudless pomp, broad, lovely, lone
The sounds of man were silent; on the hill,
Along the vale, all but the breeze was still,
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Sighs and sweet murmurings from the hawthorn brake;
The vault above was sapphire, heavenly blue,
The brightness that the eye seems looking through
When the eye is half mind; and wild, and far,
As if it found a guide in each lone star,
It wanders through the heaven, rapt, dreaming on
To the bright gates where all it loved are gone.
But hark! a bell's slow toll! and far below
Winds through the moonlight vale a train of woe.
The pomp is royal; on the nearer glance
Move sable riders, glitter helm and lance;
Thunders the heavy gun; beneath the trees
Wave banners; tall, dark plumage meets the breeze;
And now glares out—a hearse!—her shadowy throne
Whose palace is the grave,—the last, chill one!
The train moved up the hill; though on it stood
That anxious night the countless multitude,
There was no voice among them; tears must tell—
What words have never told,—the heart's farewell
Winds through the moonlight vale a train of woe.
The pomp is royal; on the nearer glance
Move sable riders, glitter helm and lance;
Thunders the heavy gun; beneath the trees
Wave banners; tall, dark plumage meets the breeze;
And now glares out—a hearse!—her shadowy throne
Whose palace is the grave,—the last, chill one!
The train moved up the hill; though on it stood
That anxious night the countless multitude,
There was no voice among them; tears must tell—
What words have never told,—the heart's farewell
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |