The Moonlight Night

Hail! empress of the star-bespangled sky! At thy benign approach night throws aside Her raven-colour'd vest, and from her cave Starts forth to visibility. And now With thy bright edging burnish'd, on the eye The tree-tops glitter. Hills, and vales, and plains, Thy softest influence feel. The weary ox, Forgetful of the labours of the day, Slumbers at ease beneath thy kindly beam. Tho' now the lamp, that late illum'd the day, Its blaze withdraws, to light up other worlds, I cannot weep its absence, while this scene Invites to speculation more refin'd. Witness this canopy of cluster'd stars, In dazzling order spread, immensely bright! Witness yon glittering mounts and valley streams Dancing beneath thy silver-shedding orb. Mute are the choral warblers of the day; Yet, tho' the choral warblers of the day No more symphonious lull attention's ear; And tho' nor linnet sings, nor laughing finch Shrill twittles from the spray—O smiling night, Still, still thou hast thy charms, while Philomel Is thine. Ah! let me hear th' extatic swells By echo's voice return'd—so sweet's the strain, The nymph enamour'd doubles every note, Save ever and anon thy softest trill In imperfection dies upon her tongue. If aught of sound the troubled breast can sooth, And from its course avert the tide of grief, 'Tis thine, thou sweet musician. Tho' thy dirge Be querulous, yet does it fill the mind With solemn musing and celestial wonder. Nor yet I scorn, O night, thy loving bird, As on her ivy-slaunting turret perch'd, Wooing thy brownest solitude, she hoots To some discordant—yet again, ere morn Affright thine eye, and rob me of thy note! Oh! 'tis a pleasing melancholy air, Which fancy well may melodize. How oft From jarring strings harmonious sounds are drawn: Turn upwards, eyes! and see yon flaming arch, Behold—there view the Deity immense; How glows each sacred light! yon falling star! 'Tis he who shines in all; th' eternal One Who form'd and rules with awe the wonderous whole. Here let the atheist tremble as he looks, And blush into belief.—But can there live A monster so absurd?—Where art thou, then, Oh conscience?—What, asleep?—Then must thou wake In torments wrapt, when death disturbs thy dream. For know (poor crawling worm of little faith) Thou canst not die the wretch that thou hast liv'd. Here let me gaze, and, in the trance of thought, Forget that I am mortal.—But behold, Alas! the prospect lessens, and each star From the fair face of sun retires, eclipsed With lustre more predominant. Farewell, Sweet nurse of virtue, contemplation sage! For I must leave thee now. The busy day My lingering chides. I go, till night return, To plunge into that sea of sin, a bustling world.