The night is calm and beautiful; the snow Sparkles beneath the clear and frosty moon And the cold stars, as if it took delight In its own silent whiteness; the hushed earth Sleeps in the soft arms of the embracing blue, Secure as if angelic squadrons yet Encamped about her, and each watching star Gained double brightness from the flashing arms Of wingèd and unsleeping sentinels. Upward the calm of infinite silence deepens, The sea that flows between high heaven and earth, Musing by whose smooth brink we sometimes find A stray leaf floated from those happier shores, And hope, perchance not vainly, that some flower Which we had watered with our holiest tears, Pale blooms, and yet our scanty garden's best, O'er the same ocean piloted by love, May find a haven at the feet of God, And be not wholly worthless in his sight. O, high dependence on a higher Power, Sole stay for all these restless faculties That wander, Ishmael-like, the desert bare Wherein our human knowledge hath its home, Shifting their light-framed tents from day to day, With each new-found oasis, wearied soon, And only certain of uncertainty! O, mighty humbleness that feels with awe, Yet with a vast exulting feels, no less, That this huge Minster of the Universe, Whose smallest oratories are glorious worlds, With painted oriels of dawn and sunset; Whose carvèd ornaments are systems grand, Orion kneeling in his starry niche, The Lyre whose strings give music audible To holy ears, and countless splendors more, Crowned by the blazing Cross high-hung o'er all; Whose organ music is the solemn stops Of endless Change breathed through by endless Good; Whose choristers are all the morning stars; Whose altar is the sacred human heart Whereon Love's candles burn unquenchably, Trimmed day and night by gentle-handed Peace; With all its arches and its pinnacles That stretch forever and forever up, Is founded on the silent heart of God, Silent, yet pulsing forth exhaustless life Through the least veins of all created things. Fit musings these for the departing year; And God be thanked for such a crystal night As fills the spirit with good store of thoughts, That, like a cheering fire of walnut, crackle Upon the hearthstone of the heart, and cast A mild home-glow o'er all Humanity! Yes, though the poisoned shafts of evil doubts Assail the skyey panoply of Faith, Though the great hopes which we have had for man, Foes in disguise, because they based belief On man's endeavor, not on God's decree-- Though these proud-visaged hopes, once turned to fly, Hurl backward many a deadly Parthian dart That rankles in the soul and makes it sick With vain regret, nigh verging on despair-- Yet, in such calm and earnest hours as this, We well can feel how every living heart That sleeps to-night in palace or in cot, Or unroofed hovel, or which need hath known