Chapter XXVII

The moon has fled upon the hill,
No more it gilds the murm’ring rill;
The stars are faint, and dimly seen,
Unlighted by their lovely queen;
The magic of the night is past,
And morning’s rays are coming fast;
In the grey skirtings of the east,
Across the ocean’s waveless breast,
Faint streaks of doubtful light appear,
Betok’ning Phœbus’s chariot near,
The mountains in the spreading light,
Gleam from their dark and cloudy height;
Stretch shadowy, o’er the landscape wide,
And tremble on the ebbing tide.
From the low dewy vale’s retreat,
Light clouds of mist the morning greet;
Now, stronger from the orient streaming,
O’er nature’s breast the sun is beaming;
The glittering woods enliven’d smile,
The fields resound the voice of toil,
Light songsters flutter in the groves,
And pleasure o’er the woodland roves:
Hark! o’er the valley, soft and clear
The rustic song swells on the ear;
The song by health and joy inspired,
In hearts with nature’s beauties fired.