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the forests and the fields, slumbering in their 

 luxuriance, a glory which is enchantment. The 

 blackbird has sung his requiem to departed day, 

 and all the air is still, as if our world of turmoil 

 were one of repose. The stream winds like a 

 thread of silver through the vale ; and if, haply, 

 a rural church-yard be near, with its spire like a 

 finger pointing to heaven, and its mossy tomb- 

 stones, and its venerable yew, the soul is solem- 

 nized and softened ; the vanities and the little- 

 ness of our daily pursuits appear in their true 

 light ; and man's immortal destiny seems almost 

 evident without the aid of revelation, from the 

 very magnificence of the earthly habitation which 

 God has created for his abode. 



All poets downward from Homer to Coleridge 

 and Wilson, have hymned the praises of the 

 moon : its pervading influence has by none been 

 so sweetly figured as by Keats : 



" Oh moon ! old boughs lisp forth a holier din 

 The while they feel thy airy fellowship ; 

 Thou dost bless every where, with silver lip 

 Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping kine 

 Couched in thy brightness dream of fields divine ; 

 Innumerable mountains rise, and rise 

 Ambitious for the hallowing of thine eyes ; 

 And yet thy benediction passeth not 

 One obscure hiding-place, one little spot 

 Where pleasure may be sent ; the nestled wren 

 Has thy fair face within its tranquil ken, 

 And from beneath a sheltering leaf 

 Takes glimpses of thee." 



But if nature's tranquil magnificence be so 

 imposing in the moonlight of autumn, not less 



