But, slowly rising up the vaulted sky,
Forth comes the moon, night's joyous, sylvan queen,
With one lone, silent star, attendant by
Her side, all sparkling in its glorious sheen;
And, floating swan-like, stately, and serene,
A few light fleecy clouds, the drapery of heav'n,
Throw their pale shadows o'er this witching scene,
Deep'ning its mystic grandeur--and seem driven
Round these all shapeless piles like Time's wan spectres risen

From out the tombs of ages. All around
Lies hushed and still, save with large, dusky wing
The bird of night makes its ill-omened sound;
Or moor-game, nestling 'neath th' flowery ling
Low chuckle to their mates--or startled, spring
Away on rustling pinions to the sky,
Wheel round and round in many an airy ring,
Then swooping downward to their covert hie,
And, lodged beneath the heath again securely lie.

Ascend yon hoary rock's impending brow,
And on its windy summit take your stand--
Lo! Wilsill's lovely vale extends below,
And long, long heathy moors on either hand
Stretch dark and misty--a bleak tract of land,
Whereon but seldom human footsteps come;
Save when with dog, obedient at command,
And gun, the sportsman quits his city home,
And brushing through the ling in quest of game doth roam.