’Tis now the moment still and dread, When Sorcerers use their baleful power; When Graves give up their buried dead To profit by the sanctioned hour: From guilt and guilty thoughts secure, To duty and devotion true, With bosom light and conscience pure, Repose, thy gentle aid I woo. Good Angels, take my thanks, that still The snares of vice I view with scorn; Thanks, that to-night as free from ill I sleep, as when I woke at morn. Yet may not my unconscious breast Harbour some guilt to me unknown? Some wish impure, which unreprest You blush to see, and I to own? If such there be, in gentle dream Instruct my feet to shun the snare; Bid truth upon my errors beam, And deign to make me still your care. Chase from my peaceful bed away The witching Spell, a foe to rest, The nightly Goblin, wanton Fay, The Ghost in pain, and Fiend unblest: Let not the Tempter in mine ear Pour lessons of unhallowed joy; Let not the Night-mare, wandering near My Couch, the calm of sleep destroy; Let not some horrid dream affright With strange fantastic forms mine eyes; But rather bid some vision bright Display the bliss of yonder skies. Show me the crystal Domes of Heaven, The worlds of light where Angels lie; Shew me the lot to Mortals given, Who guiltless live, who guiltless die. Then show me how a seat to gain Amidst those blissful realms of Air; Teach me to shun each guilty stain, And guide me to the good and fair. So every morn and night, my Voice To heaven the grateful strain shall raise; In You as Guardian Powers rejoice, Good Angels, and exalt your praise: So will I strive with zealous fire Each vice to shun, each fault correct; Will love the lessons you inspire, And Prize the virtues you protect. Then when at length by high command My body seeks the Grave’s repose, When Death draws nigh with friendly hand My failing Pilgrim eyes to close; Pleased that my soul has ’scaped the wreck, Sighless will I my life resign, And yield to God my Spirit back, As pure as when it first was mine. Having finished her usual devotions, Antonia retired to bed. Sleep soon stole over her senses; and for several hours She enjoyed that calm repose which innocence alone can know, and for which many a Monarch with pleasure would exchange his Crown. CHAPTER VII. ——Ah! how dark These long-extended realms and rueful wastes; Where nought but silence reigns, and night, dark night, Dark as was Chaos ere the Infant Sun Was rolled together, or had tried its beams Athwart the gloom profound! The sickly Taper By glimmering through thy low-browed misty vaults, Furred round with mouldy damps, and ropy slime, Lets fall a supernumerary horror, And only serves to make Thy night more irksome! BLAIR.