So gleams the star of evening o'er the wave.
A melancholy haze hangs o'er the ocean;
The rocky cliffs reflect a sallow light—
Such as through cloister'd halls of dim devotion,
The moon-beams pour upon the cloudy night.
Ye rocky heights—ye violet-meads appearing
Once fairer to my gaze than poet's dream—
Now all your golden light to gloom is veering,
And every floweret laves in Lethe's stream.
Hills, valleys, meads, no changes ye are mourning;