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XI
`Tis midnight: on the mountains brown
The cold, round moon shines deeply down:
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light,
So wildly, spiritually bright;
Who ever gazed upon them shining,
And turn`d to earth without repining,
Nor wish`d for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The waves on either shore lay there,
Calm, clear, and azure as the air;
And scarce their foam the pebbles shook,
But murmur`d meekly as the brook.
The winds were pillow`d on the waves;
The banners droop`d along their staves,
And, as they fell around them furling,
Above them shone the crescent curling;
And that deep silence was unbroke,
Save where the watch his signal spoke,
Save where the steed neigh`d oft and shrill,
And echo answer`d from the hill,
And the wide hum of that wild host,
Rustled like leaves from coast to coast,
As rose the Muezzin`s voice in air
In midnight call to wonted prayer;
It rose, that chanted mournful strain,
Like some lone spirit`s o`er the plain:
`Twas musical, but sadly sweet,
Such as when winds and harp-strings meet,
And take a long-unmeasured tone,
To mortal minstrelsy unknown.
It seem`d to those within the wall
A cry prophetic of their fall:
It struck even the besieger`s ear
An undefined and sudden thrill,
Which makes the heart a moment still,
Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed
Of that strange sense its silence framed:
Such as a sudden passing-bell
Wakes though but for a stranger`s knell.
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