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NIGHT.
IGHT, holy night! there is a spell in thee,Which far exceeds the noontide glare of day.
Or pensive stillness of the twilight hour,
When thus, upon the wrapt and slumbering earth,
Thick darkness broods, with felt and awful power,
The shrouded stars presume not to dispel.
Oh! solemn is this noon of deepest night,
This pause of nature, like her hour of prayer.
'Tis silence, darkness all; no watery beam,
No ray of twilight trembles through the gloom:
No sound is stealing on the murky air,
To break the stillness of this midnight calm;
And Nature, like a watchful mother, seems
In silence bending o'er her children's sleep,
Scarce breathing, lest she break their deep repose,
Yet pondering in her own all anxious heart,
The lights and shadows of their onward way.
Fair is the morning hour of dewy prime,
When earth awaking bounds to life again,
And thousand voices greet the new-born day.
Fair is the sultry noon's unclouded glow,
When earth awaking bounds to life again,
And thousand voices greet the new-born day.
Fair is the sultry noon's unclouded glow,
