Sonnet Lxvi. Brussels

The peaceful moon sheds downward from the sky Upon the sleeping city her soft light; Lines of storm--laden vapour heavily From the low north advance upon the night; The minster--towers are seen in vision bright In front, distinct with fretted tracery; And long glades stretch beneath this giddy height, Dappled with shadows dark of tower and tree. Such wert thou, Brussels, when I gazed on thee; Thou, at whose name the circumstance of war Rose to my youthful fancy; now no more A sound to move to tears; to memory Henceforth, as ever unto freedom, dear, In virtue of this night so soft and clear.