JT-41-DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT.

DESCRIPTION OF NIGHT.

How dull, how dark, how sable is the night,
She’s hid creation from my raptur’d sight,
Horrific clouds come rolling round the sky,
And on the hills in tow’ring columns lie!
The distant vale is wrapp’d in silent gloom,
Where darkling birds their boding notes resume.
No twinkling star thro’ opening clouds appears,
No brighter moon to banish nightly fears,
But winds loud howling in the mountain far,
Rush on amain in their ether’al car;
A sullen breeze drives wide the cottage door,
And warns the owner to prepare for more.
The valley stream slow murmurs to the ear,
But murmurs mournful as the breezes veer.

From yon lone tree, not distant from the grave,
Where lie the wise, the coward and the brave,
I hear the owl long hooting o’er the dead,
Along the place where ghostly shadows sped!
Far distant, where the lonely cottage stands,
Beside the gurgling brook, in wilder’d lands,
The howling dog is heard--the echoes mourn,
And on the quivering breeze are distant borne.

The stag lies snuffing on the mountain side,
The timid hind, his faithful, bouncing bride,
Becomes alarm’d but hears the breezes pass
His spiry horns--then nips the mossy grass.
The bounding roe is in the rocky cleft,
In nightly slumbers he is lonely left;
The heathcock’s head is hid beneath his wing,
The woody warblers have forgot to sing,
The fearless beasts and all the merry birds,
Have sought retreat, and the domestic herds,
No sounds concordant in the passing air,
The owl’s loud hoots, are only wafted there;
Or yelling wolf along the cottage way,
Or barking fox who seeks his nightly prey.

The lonely stranger in the desert wide,
Has lost his way, and knows not where to guide;
Thro’ shrubs and thorns, a devious course he bends,
In miry bogs, in winding rills descends;
He fears to tread, he fears the ghosts of night,
He trembling goes, but wanders from the right.
The old trees groan along the silent ground,
And passing goblins whisper in the sound!
Alas! he tries, but tries in vain to know,
Where he should find a safer path to go;
He finds no friend to loud him timely aid,
But sinks in death amid the gloomy shade!

So would the prodigal with flowing eyes,
With lifted hands and penitential cries,
Deplore his wayward course so eager run,
But now so wretched--nought but mis’ry won.
My friends receive the pilgrim for the night,
Solace his sorrows till the morning light,
And when his journey and his days shall close,
O, may no fears disturb his last repose.