ODES. 165 



ODE TO MIDNIGHT, 



Season of general rest, whose solemn still 

 Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful cliill, 



But speaks to philosophic souls delight : 

 Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, 

 My candle waning melancholy by, 



I sit, and taste tlie holy calm of nigbt. 



Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, 

 And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, 



Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame j 

 To her, while all around in sleep recline, 

 Wakeful, I raise my orisons divine, 



And sing the gentle honours of her name ; 



"While Fancj lone o'er me, her votary, bends, 

 To lift my soul her fairy vision 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 } on churchyard elm what spectres throng ! 



Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, 

 My flagelet— 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 be spies the light. 

 Now faintly flashing on the glooms of niglit. 



Where I, poor muser, my le>ne vigils keep ; 

 And, mid the dreary solitude serene, 

 Cast a much-meaning glance u;on the scene, 



And raise my mournful eye to heaven and weep. 



