Night

'Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night
Bows down superbly from her utmost height,
Stretches her starless plumes across the world,
And all the banners of the wind are furl'd.
How heavily we breathe amid such gloom,
As if we slumber'd in creation's tomb.
It is the noon of that tremendous hour
When life is helpless, and the dead have power;
When solitudes are peopled; when the sky
Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by,
Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills
Are chirping on their course, and all the hills
Are bright with armour; when the starry vests,
And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests
Of moon-light sentinels are sparkling round,
And all the air is one rich floating sound;
When countless voices, in the day unheard,
Are piping from their haunts, and every bird
That loves the leafy wood and blooming bower
And echoing cave, is singing to her flower;
When every lovely, every lonely place,
Is ringing to the light and sandal'd paee
Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow
Of new-born fountains, murmuring as they go;
When watery tunes are richest, and the call
Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall
In foaming melody, is all around,
Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground —
Sweet, drowsy, distant music! like the breath
Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death.
It is that hour when listening ones will weep
And know not why; when we would gladly sleep
Our last, last sleep, and feel no touch of fear,
Unconscious where we are, or what is near,
Till we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gather'd in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky;
That hour of gratitude, of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air;
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our fids and brow a blessing steal;
And then, as if our sins were all forgiven,
And all our tears were wiped, and we in heaven!