While choirs of fervent angels sang
  Their vespers in the grove;
  Or, crowning, star-like, each some sovereign height,
  Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,
  Strains suitable to both.—­Such holy rite,
  Methinks, if audibly repeated now
  From hill or valley could not move
  Sublimer transport, purer love,
  Than doth this silent spectacle—­the gleam—­
  The shadow—­and the peace supreme!

  II.

  No sound is uttered,—­but a deep
  And solemn harmony pervades
  The hollow vale from steep to steep,
  And penetrates the glades. 
  Far distant images draw nigh,
  Called forth by wondrous potency
  Of beamy radiance, that imbues
  Whate’er it strikes with gem-like hues. 
  In vision exquisitely clear,
  Herds range along the mountain side,
  And glistening antlers are descried,
  And gilded flocks appear. 
  Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve! 
  But long as godlike wish or hope divine
  Informs my spirit, ne’er can I believe
  That this magnificence is wholly thine! 
  From worlds nor quickened by the sun
  A portion of the gift is won;
  An intermingling of heaven’s pomp is spread
  On ground which British shepherds tread!

  III.

  And if there be whom broken ties
  Afflict, or injuries assail,
  Yon hazy ridges to their eyes
  Present a glorious scale[162]
  Climbing suffused with sunny air,
  To stop—­no record hath told where;
  And tempting Fancy to ascend,
  And with immortal spirits blend! 
  —­Wings at my shoulders seem to play! 
  But, rooted here, I stand and gaze
  On those bright steps that heavenward raise
  Their practicable way. 
  Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad,
  And see to what fair countries ye are bound! 
  And if some traveller, weary of his road,
  Hath slept since noontide on the grassy ground,
  Ye genii, to his covert speed,
  And wake him with such gentle heed
  As may attune his soul to meet the dower
  Bestowed on this transcendent hour.

  IV.

  Such hues from their celestial urn
  Were wont to stream before mine eye
  Where’er it wandered in the morn
  Of blissful infancy. 
  This glimpse of glory, why renewed? 
  Nay, rather speak with gratitude;
  For, if a vestige of those gleams
  Survived, ’twas only in my dreams. 
  Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve
  No less than nature’s threatening voice,
  If aught unworthy be my choice,
  From THEE if I would swerve;
  Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light
  Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored;
  Which, at this moment, on my waking sight
  Appears to shine, by miracle restored: 
  My soul, though yet confined to earth,
  Rejoices in a second birth! 
  —­’Tis past; the visionary splendour fades;
  And night approaches with her shades.