when daylight crown’d the clover’d hill, And shepherds pip’d at morn, There lay a maid so fair and still, As if from Heaven born. Her brow was calm, her lips were sweet, Soft folded as in prayer; No mortal grief her dreams could meet, Nor sorrow venture there.
II But when the moon her silver’d lance Thrust o’er the darkling lea, Up sprang the maid in fever’d trance, A wraith of misery. Her hair unbound, her voice a flame, She shriek’d through field and fen— The gentle folk that knew her name Would cross themselves again.
III “Why roams she so, that moon-mad child?” The village matrons cried; “She sleeps by day in visions mild, By night a storm-toss’d tide. What curse hath mark’d her tender years, What demon’s vow she keeps? For daylight finds her all in tears, And yet by dawn she sleeps.”
IV Then came a sage, both old and kind, Who whisper’d, “Peace is nigh; The well that cools the heart and mind Is hid where shadows lie. Go draw, thou maid, from wisdom’s d
