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The soul,—ah me, these agonizing thrills,
These wild commotions and insatiate pains!
When banished Nature's great supporter, how
Can Nature bear this dread conspiracy
Of ills unnumbered? Yet, so long as flow
The faintly circling streams of life,
Dear is thy dreary gloom, O Night! to me.
Though rest hath vanished from thy lingering hours,
And griefs augmenting cause convulsive starts,
That make me quickly turn from side to side,
Fatigued and fainting with the frequent task;
Yet thou art welcome still, and thy deep tones,
That sigh congenial sadness from the wind,—
Whether in whispers soft it moan around,
Or fiercer breathe its strong, impetuous power;
When the fair moon her aspect mild displays
Amid the silence of the twinkling stars,
Or when obscured by thick and sombre clouds;
Nighty still thou ever art more dear to me,
Than all the glories of the rising day,—
The soft and varying rays of mingling hues,
That blend in changeful beauty, and adorn
The placid azure,—and the fleecy clouds,
That, buoyant, sail upon the balmy air.—
The joyous music of the harmonious choir,
When first they gayly tune their magic song,
Replete with artless melody and love,
Can soothe and charm no more; nor social sound
Of cheerful voices, nor the busy scenes
Of active, happy life have aught for me
More of sweet pleasure in them. Mingling sounds
These wild commotions and insatiate pains!
When banished Nature's great supporter, how
Can Nature bear this dread conspiracy
Of ills unnumbered? Yet, so long as flow
The faintly circling streams of life,
Dear is thy dreary gloom, O Night! to me.
Though rest hath vanished from thy lingering hours,
And griefs augmenting cause convulsive starts,
That make me quickly turn from side to side,
Fatigued and fainting with the frequent task;
Yet thou art welcome still, and thy deep tones,
That sigh congenial sadness from the wind,—
Whether in whispers soft it moan around,
Or fiercer breathe its strong, impetuous power;
When the fair moon her aspect mild displays
Amid the silence of the twinkling stars,
Or when obscured by thick and sombre clouds;
Nighty still thou ever art more dear to me,
Than all the glories of the rising day,—
The soft and varying rays of mingling hues,
That blend in changeful beauty, and adorn
The placid azure,—and the fleecy clouds,
That, buoyant, sail upon the balmy air.—
The joyous music of the harmonious choir,
When first they gayly tune their magic song,
Replete with artless melody and love,
Can soothe and charm no more; nor social sound
Of cheerful voices, nor the busy scenes
Of active, happy life have aught for me
More of sweet pleasure in them. Mingling sounds
