Still keeps retiring Night upon its brow.
O’er the chill earth all comfortless, I tread;
The Eye of Nature beams in other skies:
I’ll seek yon bending mountain’s lofty head,
And peep upon his beauties ere he rise.
Forbear!—expiring stars proclaim him nigh,
Faintly they wink, and lose their silver light;
The streaky orient wears a deepen’d dye,
Green looks the upland, and the river bright.
O’er the brown wood he sheds a trembling ray,