AS I gazed on the prospect enchanted,
On waves the sun-glory had kissed,
There slowly swept down from the distance,
The phantom-like bands of the mist.
On their feet that were spectrally soundless,
They glided fantastic and chill
While a prescient pallor crept over
The beauty of lake-side and hill!
All nature grew cold at their advent!
Like Thugs of the air, demon-born,
With their coils of blue vapor they strangled
The virgin effulgence of morn.
By that ambush of darkness was girdled
Each bright beam in dreary embrace,
Till the fairest young dawn of September
Lay wan on her death-shadowed face.
When wildly and weirdly from sea-ward,
A low wind how mournfully stole!
Like all anthem outbreathed for the morning,
Thus sternly divorced from her soul!
