NIGHT.
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And darts like lightning through the depths of space,Impatient, eager some new path to traceWhere seraphim or angels may have trod,When drawing nearer to the throne of God,Joy's sunlight is not always genius' dow'r;Too oft it feels the storm and whirlwind's pow'r,Yet storm and whirlwind may alike defy,With upward glance still fixed on Deity.Immortal minstrel! Milton, sang of lightWhen its sweet beams no more might cheer his sight;Though day its glories has, O Night! we claimThou hast thy glories too, though not the same.And when o'er earth thy gentle shadows fall;When quietness and peace reign over all;When stars gaze on us from their home aboveWith glances full of sympathy and love;The waves of life's great sea more calmly roll,And tides of glorious thoughts sweep o'er the soul.Then, too, in those calm hours of deep repose,Long after day has wandered to its close,When sleep waves o'er us its soft magic wand,How sweet to wander in that mystic land,—The dream-land, often with rare beauties fraughtLike that bewitching fairy-land of thought! O Night! we love thee most that thou dost show,To mortals dwelling in this sphere below,
