Music of the Night

There are harps that complain to the presence of night,
To the presence of night alone —
In a near and unchangeable tone —
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by,
As if some immortal had stoop'd from the sky,
And breathed out a blessing — and flown!
Yes! harps that complain to the breezes of night,
To the breezes of night alone;
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright
The sun rolls aloft' in his drapery of light,
Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air!
Burning crimson and gold
On the clouds that unfold,
Breaking onward in flame, while an ocean divides
On his right and his left — -So the Thunderer rides,
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides,
Rolling on, and erect, in a charioting throne!
Yes! strings that lie still in the gushing of day,
That awake, all alive, to the breezes of night.
There are hautboys and flutes too, for ever at play
When the evening is near, and the sun is away,
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are play'd —
By spirits, unseen, and unknown,
But thick as the stars, all this music is made;
And these flutes, alone,
In one sweet dreamy tone,
Are ever blown,
For ever and for ever.
The live-long night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round
In ringing caves, while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-music falls,
And rival minstrels meet.