His only certainty and resting place; He must put off awhile this mortal vest, And learn to follow, without giddiness, To heights where all is vision, and surprise, And vague conjecture.—He must waste by night The studious taper, far from all resort Of crowds and folly, in some still retreat; High on the beetling promontory's crest, Or in the caves of the vast wilderness, Where, compass'd round with Nature's wildest shapes, He may be driven to centre all his thoughts In the great Architect, who lives confess'd In rocks, and seas, and solitary wastes.

So has divine Philosophy, with voice Mild as the murmurs of the moonlight wave, Tutor'd the heart of him, who now awakes, Touching the chords of solemn minstrelsy, His faint, neglected song—intent to snatch Some vagrant blossom from the dangerous steep Of poesy, a bloom of such a hue, So sober, as may not unseemly suit With Truth's severer brow; and one withal So hardy as shall brave the passing wind Of many winters,—rearing its meek head In loveliness, when he who gathered it Is number'd with the generations gone. Yet not to me hath God's good providence Given studious leisure,2 or unbroken thought, Such as he owns,—a meditative man; Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er, Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din: From noise and wrangling far, and undisturb'd With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day Hath duties which require the vigorous hand Of steadfast application, but which leave No deep improving trace upon the mind. But be the day another's;—let it pass! The night's my own!—They cannot steal my night! When evening lights her folding star on high, I live and breathe; and in the sacred hours Of quiet and repose my spirit flies, Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space. And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for Heaven.

Hence do I love the sober-suited maid; Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme, And she shall aid me now to magnify The night of ages,—now when the pale ray Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom, And, at my window seated, while mankind Are lock'd in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole, Thought, like a wakeful vestal at her shrine, Assumes her wonted sway.

Behold the world Rests, and her tired inhabitants have paused From trouble and turmoil. The widow now Has ceased to weep, and her twin orphans lie Lock'd in each arm, partakers of her rest. The man of sorrow has forgot his woes; The outcast that his head is shelterless, His griefs unshared.—The mother tends no more Her daughter's dying slumbers, but surprised With heaviness, and 

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