'Tis night: her jewelled mantle fills
The busy valley, the dun hills,
'Tis a battle host's repose!
A thousand watch-fires redly gleam,
While ceaseless fusillades would seem
To warn approaching foes.
The night is older. On the sward
Stretched, I behold the heavens broad,
When—a Shape rises dim,
Then, clearer, fuller, I descry,