G. D. Prentice.
54. When the moon, her lids unclosing, deigns
To smile serenely on the charmed sea,
That shines, as if inlaid with lightning chains,
From which it hardly struggled to be free.
Epes Sargent.
55. The high festival of night,
When earth is radiant with delight,
And fast as weary day retires
The heaven unfolds its secret fires,