266 ARNOLD
Where the moon-silvered inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O speed, and rejoice !
On the sward at the cliff-top Lie strewn the white flocks. On the cliff-side the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks.
In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lulled by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets Asleep on the hills.
What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flowered broom?
What sweet-breathing presence Out-perfumes the thyme ? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime?
'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, the Nine. The leader is fairest, But all are divine.
They are lost in the hollows ! They stream up again ! What seeks on this mountain The glorified train?
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