'Tis sweet, when night is hushed in deep repose; And hides the Minstrel's form from every eye; To breathe the thoughts that speech can ne'er disclose, In all the eloquence of harmony. The mellow strain pervades the silent air, And mingles with the sleeper's blissful dream: The Lover hears the song of maiden fair; The humble saint, an Angel's holy hymn. Then sweet to know that she, for whom alone, Pours the wild stream of plaintive melody, Recalls the voice of Love in every tone; Approves its truth, and owns its purity. Borne on the breeze that cools her glowing cheek, But fans the ardor of her fevered breast; Lifts the loose lock that floats upon her neck, Sports round her couch, and hovers o'er her rest: Borne on that breeze, it greets her listening ear With tales of raptured bliss and tender wo; And tells of Joy and Grief, of Hope, Despair, And all that love, and Love alone can know. Her fair companions hear the soothing sound, But mute to them the voice that speaks to her; Burns the warm blush, unmarked of all around, And darkling falls, unseen, the silent tear. But not unseen of all; for to his eye, By Fancy's magic light she stands revealed; Her bosom struggling with the half-breathed sigh, By the strong pressure of her hand repelled. The Tear that in the moon-beam sparkles bright; The pensive look; the outstretched neck of snow; The Blush, contending with the silver light, Whose cold pale gleam would quench its fervid glow; He sees and hears it all. The music's stream Extends a viewless chord of sympathy, Thought answers thought; and, lost in Fancy's dream, Each breast responsive swells with sigh for sigh. Then O how sweet! warmed by the sacred flame, Of mutual--true,--but fruitless--hopeless love, To run the high career of deathless fame, And mid the world's admiring gaze to move Reckless of all but her. By midnight lamp, To turn, with heedful eye, the learned page; To shake the Senate, or to rule the Camp; To brave the tempest's blast, or battle's rage! What is the thought that prompts his studious zeal? That mans his breast in danger's fearful path? That nerves his arm to grasp the gory steel, Despising toil and hardship, wounds and death? It is that she the impassioned strain will love, That gives her charms in deathless verse to shine; Her favoring smile his steadfast faith approve; Her raptured tears bedew each glowing line. It is that she will cherish the renown Of noble deeds achieved her name to grace; And prize the heart that beat for her alone, In glory's triumph, and in death's embrace. 'Tis that a grateful nation's loud acclaim May pour his praises on her favoring ear; 'Tis that the twilight splendor of his name The widowed darkness of her heart may cheer.