IV.

'Wake, yon purple peaks arise, Jagged, bare, through saffron skies; Now is heard a twittering sweet, For the mother-martins meet, Where wet ivies, dew-besprent, Glisten on the battlement. Now the lark at heaven's gold gate Aiming, sweetly chides on fate That his brown wings wearied were When he, sure, was almost there. Now the valley mist doth break, Shifting sparkles edge the lake, Love, Lord, Master, wake, O wake!'