MOONLIGHT.
17
In armour, in soft stoles, in peasant weeds,
Or in the robes of thought, with laurel crown'd:
Touch'd by the dream of Life, they re-ascend
From their oblivious haunt, and feed their sense
With expectation of the matin ray.
Not less in number, than the nascent stars
That shine upon their woe, or the soft crowds
Of Daffodils, that in the early Spring
Awake the hill of Mountfield to delight:
But long ere Morn with her awak'ning trump
Disperse the shadows of thin night, they flee,
Thick as Autumnal leaves upon the shore
Of Vallombrosa, at Proserpine's call,
And warn'd by Phosphor, to their penal home.
Ah, hapless Spirits! but the day shall come,
When Mercy on that silent shore shall reign,
And that too-troubled dream of endless woe,
In which the senses wander, as a pool,
Conclude in bliss, amid immortal bow'rs!
Or in the robes of thought, with laurel crown'd:
Touch'd by the dream of Life, they re-ascend
From their oblivious haunt, and feed their sense
With expectation of the matin ray.
Not less in number, than the nascent stars
That shine upon their woe, or the soft crowds
Of Daffodils, that in the early Spring
Awake the hill of Mountfield to delight:
But long ere Morn with her awak'ning trump
Disperse the shadows of thin night, they flee,
Thick as Autumnal leaves upon the shore
Of Vallombrosa, at Proserpine's call,
And warn'd by Phosphor, to their penal home.
Ah, hapless Spirits! but the day shall come,
When Mercy on that silent shore shall reign,
And that too-troubled dream of endless woe,
In which the senses wander, as a pool,
Conclude in bliss, amid immortal bow'rs!
