The hour was near at hand for labourers’ rest;
And the fair moon, ascending to invest
The vast impurpling dome of coming night
With her transcendent beams of silvery light,
Was riding onward in her chair of state;
While he[186]—her lord and sovereign potentate—
Roll’d down th’ horizon o’er the western seas
To render day to the Antipodes.
Dear Philomela, issuing from its cave,
Peal’d forth its plaint upon the breezy wave;