31 



Is number'd with the generations gone. 



Yet not to me hath God's good providence 



Given studious leisure,* or unbroken tbouglit, 



Such as he owns, — a meditative man, 



^yho from the blush of rnorn to quiet eve 



Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, 



Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din ; 



From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd 



With mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day 



Hath duties which require the vigorous hand 



Of steadfast application, but which leave 



No deep improving trace upon the mind. 



But be the day another's : — let it pass ! 



The night's my own ! — They cannot steal my night ! 



When Evening lights her folding-star on high, 



I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours 



Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, 



Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space. 



And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven. 



Hence do I love the sober- suited maid ; 



Hence Night's my friend, my mistress and my theme, 



And she shall aid me now to magnify 



The night of ages, — noiv when the pale ray 



Of star-light penetrates the studious gloom. 



And at my window seated, — while mankind 



Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze 



Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole. 



Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, 



Assumes her wonted sway. 



Behold the world 

 Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused 

 From trouble and turmoil. The widow now 

 Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie 

 Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. 

 The man of sorrow has forgot his woes ; 

 The outcast that his head is shelterless. 

 His griefs unshared. — The mother tends no more 



• The Author was then in an attorney's offlco 



