The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!�
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay—
A line of black that bends and floats