Classic Poem

The day died proudly on the western hills,
And, like the glorious phaenix, fired its couch
With its expiring splendours; then stole on
The sober evening, dirging mournfully,
While softly curtaining the funeral pile;
And now, like the risen spirit of the dead,
Paler and sadder, and yet passing bright,
Night's fair magician, stealing thro' the gloom,
Has laid her charmed finger on the hills
And touched them into beauty. Not a sound
Breathes to disturb her pensive quietude,
Save those airial melodies, that steal
Upon the stillness of the midnight hour,
So softly and so soothingly, that Silence
Scarce feels their influence — they just rock his cradle,
But do not break his sleep; and not a cloud
Obscures the pathless azure of her way,
Save those light robes of whitest purity,
That flutter round her mild and lucid form,
Taking and giving beauty. Soft she smiles
On all the landscape round: the hedge-rows glitter
With dewy cressets kindled at her shrine;
The fields are spread with one most silvery web
Lighter than ever gossamer wove; the stream,
Winding without a murmur down the vale,
Sweetly in its unsullied glass reflects
The still soft figure of her loveliness;
And the remoter hills have caught her smile,
And smilingly return it; softly swelling,
Longing to meet the bosom of that heaven
That bends in love upon them.