NIGHT-FALL IN THE CAMPAGNA.
ARK the sun dying on his westward height,The monarch of the waning day expire!
While the imperial couch of blazing light
Is kindled for his funeral pall and pyre.
Campagna's speaking wastes, and flowery plain,
With scattered ruins start—then comes some ghost
Of hours departed! tho' that solemn train
Invert their torches as they moan, "Not lost,
Tho' driven away to unknown darks and glooms,
And never, never may come back again.—"
The feathery ferns, and pine-trees' sable plumes
Are drooped and broken by the rushing rain;
And night creeps on at last with measured tread,
In widow's weeds, and cries, "The king is dead."
