‘----Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and, in after years, When these wild ecstacies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling-place If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember----.’ Wordsworth. I. I have been gay tonight. The perfect moon Is sitting up in heaven, and living stars Are looking sweetly from the firmament; All elements that live, and common things In earth and sea tonight are beautiful; And there is stillness, fitting for pure thought, And light for waking dreams, and holiness Like a plain language written on the front Of this exceeding temple--and yet I Have been among the dancers, and have trod The measures of a merry instrument. I knew it as I went; for I was met By a pure reach of moonlight that came down Between the city walls, and I went back A moment to regard its silver brow, And list its gentle lesson; but a sound Of music and of thrilling voices came From the half opened window, and the laugh Of a remembered girl bewilderingly Came over me, and I forgot the moon As if I never knew it was in heaven. ’Tis strange--for I am very happy now While leaning in her light, and I could glide Most sweetly to the sleep of pleasant dreams Beneath her stilly influence--but I know That if a voice I think of were to come And call me now, my own ungentle name (Her melting lip!) would seem more beautiful. II. How secret are the goings on of night! The moonlight is not heard; and as the leaves Are touched by slumber, they bow gently down Without a rustle, and the stealthy dew Comes on them like the spirit of a dream. The daily heat departs; the unquiet pulse Of nature grows serener, and the wave Of motion in all growing things is still, While coolness circulates unheard, and rest Steals like a feeling on the animal world. So still art thou, O night! and yet thy voice Hath many tones to listen, and it tells To my unquiet wakefulness, how deep The wisdom that has fashioned thee so well-- A beautiful and fitting time of rest. III. MIDNIGHT ON THE ST LAWRENCE.