Page:The poetical works of James Thomson (1895), Volume 1.djvu/111

And I lay wrapt as in a fleece
Of warmth and purity and peace;
While consciousness within the stream
Of rippling thought and shadowy dream
Sank slowly to the deepest deep,
Lured by the murmuring Siren, sleep;
When suddenly a little thrill
Of splendour pricked both mind and will,
And brought me tidings grand and strange;
I did not stir with outward change,
But felt with inward royal mirth,
On all this dusk of heaven and earth
The moon may rise or not to-night;
But in my soul she rises bright!
 
The globe of glory swelling rose
In mighty pulses, solemn throes;
And filled and overfilled me soon
With light and music, with the swoon
Of too much rapture and amaze,
A murmurous hush, a luminous haze.
How long in this sweet swoon I lay,
What hours or years, I cannot say;
Vast arcs of the celestial sphere
Subtend such little angles here.
But after the ineffable,
This first I can remember well;