THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
167 
Peace ! creation^s gloomy queen, 
Darkest Night, invests the scene ; 
Silence, Evening^s hand-maid mild. 
Leaves her home amid the wild ; 
Tripping soft, with dewy feet, 
Summer's flowery carpet sweet, 
Morpheus* drowsy power to meet. 
Ruler of the midnight hour. 
In thy plenitude of power, 
From this burdened bosom throw, 
Half its leaden load of woe ! 
Let thy cheerless suppliant see. 
Dreams of bliss, inspired by thee, 
Let before his wandering eyes 
Fancy's fairest visions rise ; 
Long lost happiness restore, — 
None can need thy bounty more ! 
