Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended So long beneath the heaven's o'erhanging eaves; Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended, Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves; And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid, Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves ! DANTE. TUSCAN, thou wanderest through the realms of gloom, With thoughtful pace, and sad majestic eyes, Methinks I see thee stand, with pallid cheeks, By Fra Hilario in his diocese, As up the convent walls, in golden streaks, The ascending sunbeams mark the day's decrease; And as he asks what there the stranger seeks, Thy voice along the cloister whispers, 'Peace!' |