The moon looks down on old Cro’nest,
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,
By the walnut bough and the cedar made,
And through their clustering branches dark,
Glimmers and dies the firefly’s spark—
Like starry twinkles that momently break
Through the rifts of the gathering tempest’s rack.