Classic Poem

What is it that gives thee, pale Queen of the Night,
That secret intelligent grace?
Or why do I gaze with such tender delight
On thy fair, but insensible face?

What gentle enchantment possesses thy beam
Beyond the warm sunshine day?
Thy bosom is cold as the glittering stream,
Where dances thy tremulous ray.

Canst thou the sad heart of its sorrow beguile,
Or grief's fond indulgence suspend?
Yet where is the mourner but welcomes thy smile,
And loves thee almost as a friend?

The tear that looks bright on thy beam as it flows,
Unmoved thou dost ever behold;
The sorrow that loves in thy light to repose,
To thee it has never been told:

And yet thou dost sooth me; — and ever I find,
While watching thy gentle retreat,
A moonlight composure steal over my mind
Poetical, pensive, and sweet.

I think of the years that for ever are fled;
Of follies, by others forgot;
Of joys that have vanish'd; of hopes that are dead
Of friendships that were, and are not.

Those beams that so bright through my casement appear,
To far distant scenes they extend;
Illumine the dwellings of those that are dear,
And sleep on the grave of my friend.

Then still I must love thee, mild Queen of the Night!
Since feeling and fancy agree,
To make thee a source of unfading delight,
A friend and a solace to me.