Couch'd in the bosom of a bounteous vale,
The ancient city, to the enamour'd sight,
Gleams like a vision of the fairy night,
Or Be-ulah, in Banyan's holy tale.
The silvery clouds that o'er the valley sail
Dim not the sinking sun, whose lustre fires
The old cathedral and its gorgeous spires,
The ruin'd abbey, garlanded and pale
The vesper choristers in each lone wood
Chant to the peeping moon their serenade;
Now creeps the far-off forest into shade,
And twilight comes o'er heath, and field, and flood.
Oh! had I genius now the task to try,
My picture should Italian Claude's outvie!
* * H.
[1] Henry the Second.
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