Songs of A Wayfarer :: :: University of Virginia Library

Davies, William (1830-1896)

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The moon rose up at nightfall,
And called to her starry quire,
And led them up the wide heaven
On wings of silvery fire

She bade them begin their music,
And it swelled through the halls of night:
Ten thousand seraph-voices
Raining in drops of light,

Down to the dim world under;
On field and forest and fen;
With dew on the hanging flowers;
With sleep on the homes of men.

The mother who lulled her baby,
Hushed on the couch of her breast,
Bowed in as soft a slumber,
And sank to as sweet a rest.

The head of the weary toiler,
Laid down on his pillow in pain,
Was soothed by that aery chorus
To a childhood's dream again.

The sick and the suffering wakeful
On pallets of anguish and woe,
Were charmed of their hot heart's fever
By the melody soft and low

The strain of the poet whose sorrow
Still rang through the verses he sung,
Drowned by a lordlier music,
Died on his faltering tongue.

The chambers of night and darkness
Gave back their notes to the sky,
Floating for ever and ever
Round the throne of the Lord on high.

And the angels in bliss and glory
Echoed their rapturous song,
As the white moon marshalled them onwards,
Singing, a glittering throng,

Till she folded them, like a shepherd,
Down by the western brim,
At the first faint peep of daylight,
And the sky-lark's morning hymn.