Upon the stream the moonbeams quiver. 535

A happy respite! but at length
He feels the glimmering of the moon;
Wakes with glazed eye, and feebly sighing--
To sink, perhaps, where he is lying,
Into a second swoon! [59] 540

He lifts his head, he sees his staff;
He touches--'tis to him a treasure!
Faint recollection seems to tell
That he is yet where mortals dwell--
A thought received with languid pleasure! 545

His head upon his elbow propped,
Becoming less and less perplexed,
Sky-ward he looks--to rock and wood--
And then--upon the glassy [60] flood
His wandering eye is fixed. 550

Thought he, that is the face of one
In his last sleep securely bound!
So toward the stream his head he bent,
And downward thrust his staff, intent
The river's depth to sound. [61] 555

_Now_--like a tempest-shattered bark,
That overwhelmed and prostrate lies,
And in a moment to the verge
Is lifted of a foaming surge--