XIII.
The night—the glorious oriental night,
Hath lost the silence of her purple heaven,
With its clear stars! The red artillery’s light,
Athwart her worlds of tranquil splendour driven,
To the still firmament’s expanse hath given
Its own fierce glare, wherein each cliff and tower
Starts wildly forth; and now the air is riven
With thunder-bursts, and now dull smoke-clouds lower,
Veiling the gentle moon, in her most hallow’d hour.