182 IIEXRY KIRKE WIIITE's POEMi 



PALE art thou, my kinp, and faint 



Thy melaiicholv ray : 

 When the still night's unclouded saint 



Is walking on her way. 

 Through my lattice leaf embowered, 

 Fa'r she sheds her shadowy beam ; 

 And o'er my silent sacred room, 

 Casts a chequered twilight gloom ; 

 T throw aside the learned sheet, 



1 cannot choose but gaze, she looks so mildly sTrrot, 



Sad vestal, why art thou so fair, 

 Or why am I so frail ? 



Methinks thou lookest kindly on me, !Moon, 



And cheerest my lone hours with sweet regards ! 



Surely like me thou'rt sad, but dost not speak 

 Thy sadness to the cold unheeding crowd ; 



So mournfully compos'd, o'er j-onder cloud 



Thou shinest, like a cresset beaming far 



From the rude watcli-tower, o'er the Atlantic wave. 



VI. 



GIVE me music — fyr my soul doth faint; 



I'm sick of noise and care, and now mine ear 

 Longs for some air of peace, some dying plaint. 



That may the spirit from its cell unsphere. 



Hark how it falls ! and now it steals along, 

 Like distant bells upon the lake at eve, 



When all is still ; and now it grows more stror;g. 

 As when the choral train their dirges weave, 



Mellow and many- voiced ; where every close 



O'er the old minster roof, in echoing waves re flows. 



Oh ! I am wrapt aloft. My spirit soars 



Beyond the skies, and leaves the stars behind. 



