Give me my cloak! It is no night for sleep, And I will wear a vigil with the stars Until the break of morning. What a scene! The orient is all molten with the light Of a perfected moon, and in the west The deep blue tints look cool, and every star Is drawn distinctly on the sheet of heaven. The winds are wholly still, and as we pass, Breaking the shadows of the many trees That sleep upon the margin, or go in Among the graceful windings of the stream, We seem like wizards, turning into waves The very sky--it sleeps so perfectly. The vesper bells are hushed, but I can see The glitter of the steeples on the hills That swell up from the shore, and heavenly As is the face of nature, they come in Among her features like a pleasant smile, The thought of worship is so beautiful. Swiftly, yet gently on! How human things Are sometimes like a witching vision, fair! And how the cunning of diviner skill Can mingle up the elements, to make A fallen world like heaven! I am made Subject to ills, and erringly at best May use my faculties; but I am here With God’s best work about me, and a mind Humbly, but purely to the harmonies Of nature tuned, the only looker on In all this lovely paradise of light. Blessed we sometimes are! and I am now Happy in quiet feelings; for the tones Of a most pleasant company of friends Were in my ear but now, and gentle thoughts From spirits whose high character I know, Were spoken at the rising of the moon, And I retain their influence, as the air Retains the softness of departed day. And so I should be happy; and while joy Is with me, I will bless my company Of sleeping friends, and if their eyes should rest Upon this page hereafter, they will know That in the history of my lonely hours Some gentler passages were writ by them. TWILIGHT. ‘----When the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.’ Wordsworth. O twilight hour! who art so very cool And balmy in the summer eventide, With thy rich breathing quieting the winds, And the uneasy waters; twilight hour! Whose mantle is the drapery of dreams, And who hast ever been in poetry Life’s holy time; thou who wert wont to steal Upon us, as thy sandals were of dew! How sadly comes the rustle of thy step, In the decaying season of the year!