Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/168

 And o'er the ruins Time hath sped, Nods sadly with his spectral head.

And lo! even like a giant wight Slumbering his battle toils away, The sleep-locked city, gleaming bright With many a dazzling ray, Lies stretched in vastness at my feet; Voiceless the chamber and the street, And echoless the hall;— Had Death uplift his bony hand And smote all living on the land, No deeper quiet could fall. In this religious calm of night, Behold, with finger tall and bright, Each tapering spire points to the sky, In a fond, holy ecstacy;— Strange monuments they be of mind,— Of feelings dim and undefined, Shaping themselves, yet not the less, In forms of passing loveliness.

O God! this is a holy hour:— Thy breath is o'er the land;