Now sunk the Sun, now twilight sunk, and night
Rode in her zenith; not a passing breeze
Sigh'd to the grove, which in the midnight air
Stood motionless, and in the peaceful floods
Inverted hung, for now the billow slept
Along the shore, nor heav'd the deep, but spread
A shining mirror to the moon's pale orb,
Which dim and waning, o'er the shadowy cliffs,
The solemn woods, and spiry mountains' tops,
Her glimmering faintness threw: now every eye,
Oppress'd with toil, was drown'd in deep repose,
Save that the unseen shepherd in his watch,
Prop'd on his crook, stood list'ning by the fold,
And gaz'd the starry vault, and pendant moon;
Nor voice, nor sound broke on the deep serene,
But the soft murmur, of swift-gushing rills,
Forth issuing from the mountain's distant steep,
(Unheard till now, and now scarce heard) proclaim'd
All things at rest, and imag'd the still voice
Of quiet whisp'ring in the ear of night.