The earth is dark, but the heavens are bright;
Nought is seen in the vault on high
But the moon and the stars and the cloudless sky,
And the flood which rolls its milky hue,—
A river of light on the welkin blue.
The moon looks down on old Cronest,
She mellows the shades on his shaggy breast
And seems his huge gray form to throw
In a silver cone on the wave below;
His sides are broken by spots of shade,