A TALE OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY.

A FRAGMENT.

The moonbeam, quivering o’er the wave,

Sleeps in pale gold on wood and hill,

The wild wind slumbers in its cave,

And heaven is cloudless—earth is still!

The pile that crowns yon savage height

With battlements of Gothic might,

Rises in softer pomp array’d,

Its massy towers half lost in shade,