Classic Poem

'T IS Night! 'tis Night,—the Hour of hours,
When Love lies down with folded wings,
By Psyche in her starless bowers,
And down his fatal arrows flings,—
Those bowers whence not a sound is heard,
Save only from the bridal bird,
Who 'midst that utter darkness sings:
This her burthen, soft and clear,—
Love is here! Love is here!

'T IS Night! The moon is on the stream;
Bright spells are on the soothed sea;
And Hope, the child, is gone to dream,
Of pleasures which may never be!
And now is haggard Care asleep;
Now doth the widow Sorrow smile;
And slaves are hushed in slumber deep,
Forgetting grief and toil awhile!

What sight can fiery morning show
To shame the stars or pale moonlight?
What bounty can the day bestow,
Like that which falls from gentle Night?
Sweet Lady, sing I not aright?
Oh! turn and tell me,—for the day
Is faint and fading fast away;
And now comes back the Hour of hours,
When Love his lovelier mistress seeks,
And sighs, like winds 'mong evening flowers,
Until the maiden Silence speaks!

Fair girl, methinks—nay, hither turn
Those eyes, which 'mid their blushes burn;
Methinks, at such a time, one's heart
Can better bear both sweet and smart,—
Love's look—the first—which never dieth;
Or Death—who comes when Beauty flieth,
When strength is slain, when youth is past,
And all, save Truth , is lost at last!