XXXIV.
The golden day is dead at last,
And hiding all their blossoms white
In one deep shade the bowers are massed,
So feebly o'er them plays the light
Of those uncertain, moonless skies
Bewildered with a silver haze,
Through which the unnumbered starry eyes
Bend tearful down a trembling gaze.
Against the horizon's pallid line
Where western heaven with ocean blends,
Far seen yon solitary Pine
Its cloud-like canopy suspends.
Ah! hark, that Convent's chime! It swells
From dusky turrets far away:
To shepherds half asleep it tells
That Mary's daughters watch and pray.
