Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/259



Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms; And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. Ballad of Sir.

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
 * The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
 * This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence

Unrous'd by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon clouds in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
 * Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
 * Which better far were mute.
 * For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
 * And overspread with phantom-light,