To Midnight

Season of general rest, whose solemn still Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, But speaks to philosophic souls delight; Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, My candle waning melancholy by, I sit and taste the holy calm of night. Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame; To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, And sing the gentle honours of her name; While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends, To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come,- See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng! Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, My flageolet-and as I pensive play, The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast,-(while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.