Page:The poetical works of Matthew Arnold, 1897.djvu/293

Rh On the sward at the cliff-top

Lie strewn the white flocks:

On the cliff-side the pigeons

Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds,

Soft lulled by the rills,

Lie wrapped in their blankets

Asleep on the hills.

—What forms are these coming

So white through the gloom?

What garments out-glistening

The gold-flowered broom?

What sweet-breathing presence

Out-perfumes the thyme?

What voices enrapture

The night's balmy prime?

'Tis Apollo comes leading

His choir, the Nine.

The leader is fairest,

But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows!

They stream up again!

What seeks on this mountain

The glorified train?

They bathe on this mountain,

In the spring by their road;

Then on to Olympus,

Their endless abode.

—Whose praise do they mention?

Of what is it told?

What will be forever,

What was from of old.