CXLIV.

But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there-- When the stars twinkle through the loops of Time, And the low night-breeze waves along the air The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear,[pa] Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar's head--[512] When the light shines serene but doth not glare-- Then in this magic circle raise the dead;-- Heroes have trod this spot--'tis on their dust ye tread.[pb]