Xxvi

Beyond the violet-colored hill The golden, deepening daffodil Of dusk bloomed on heav’n’s window-sill: And, drifting west, the crescent moon Gleamed like a sword of Scanderoon A khedive dropped on floors of gold; Near which,--one loosened gem that rolled Out of the jewelled scimitar,-- Glittered and shone the evening-star.

Behind the trees, where, darkly deep As indigo, the shadows sleep,-- As if the Titan world would heap A throne with purple for its god, Whose pomp comes with vermilion shod-- The west, ’thwart which the wild-ducks fly, Burns, richer than the orient dye Phœnician vessels brought from Tyre, Deep, murex-stained, with carmine fire.

The light dies down; the skies grow gray: The sear, dark forests sound and sway: The ashen rain-clouds roll this way. The green grig in the withered weeds Sings, and the wild snipe seeks the reeds. With hurling winds,--that seem to wail Like Demon Huntsmen,--dark with hail And rain, which blot the cabin’s light, Comes on the wild autumnal night.