Oh! thou who, in my early youth, When fancy wore the garb of truth, Wert wont to win my infant feet To some retired, deep fabled seat, Where, by the brooklet's secret tide, The midnight ghost was known to glide; Or lay me in some lonely glade, In native Sherwood's forest shade, Where Robin Hood, the outlaw bold, Was wont his sylvan courts to hold; And there, as musing deep I lay, Would steal my little soul away, And all my pictures represent, Of siege and solemn tournament; Or bear me to the magic scene, Where, clad in greaves and gabardine, The warrior knight of chivalry Made many a fierce enchanter flee; And bore the high-born dame away, Long held the fell magician's prey. Or oft would tell the shuddering tale Of murders, and of goblins pale, Haunting the guilty baron's side (Whose floors with secret blood were dyed), Which o'er the vaulted corridor On stormy nights was heard to roar, By old domestic, waken'd wide By the angry winds that chide: Or else the mystic tale would tell Of Greensleeve, or of Blue-Beard fell. * * * * * TO MIDNIGHT. Season of general rest, whose solemn still Strikes to the trembling heart a fearful chill, But speaks to philosophic souls delight; Thee do I hail, as at my casement high, My candle waning melancholy by, I sit and taste the holy calm of night. Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails, And gilds the misty shadows of the vales, Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame; To her, while all around in sleep recline, Wakeful I raise my orisons divine, And sing the gentle honours of her name; While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends, To lift my soul her fairy visions sends, And pours upon my ear her thrilling song, And Superstition's gentle terrors come,-- See, see yon dim ghost gliding through the gloom! See round yon churchyard elm what spectres throng! Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay, My flageolet--and as I pensive play, The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene: The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast,--(while still the dull owl pours Her hollow screams each dreary pause between). Till in the lonely tower he spies the light, Now faintly flashing on the glooms of night, Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep, And, 'mid the dreary solitude serene, Cast a much-meaning glance upon the scene, And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep. TO THOUGHT. WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT. Hence, away, vindictive thought; Thy pictures are of pain; The visions through thy dark eye caught, They with no gentle charms are fraught, So pr'y thee back again. I would not weep, I wish to sleep, Then why, thou busy foe, with me thy vigils keep?