The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steerman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clombe above the eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.

—Coleridge, Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Third

climb(ed)

Solemn phiz in his own village;
Where he thought oft when a boy
He'd clombe the orchard walls to pillage
The produce of his neighbour's tillage,
With marvellous pride and joy.

—Shelley