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LANCE FALLAW.
139
Hills in whose giant tower
Soft darkness hides,
And whence at evening's hour
Her shadow glides.
Blest moment! quickly come—
Thy breeze we know,
Waking the lips grown dumb,
The pulses slow.
Come with thy starry sky,
A boundless deep;
Under thy quiet eye
We would not sleep,
But watch the lonely land
Her breast unfold,
When night's grey colours stand
Athwart the gold;
See the long mountains bend,
And take new shape;
Strange shadows to descend,
And mists to drape.
Till morning's lighter air
Blows up from far,—
Day, thou art wondrous fair
By sun or star!
Lance Fallaw.
