The night is solemn,—hushed with quiet deep;
Scarce breaks the silence, save where in the grass,
Chirping their music, such as charmeth sleep,
A myriad of wakeful insects pass.

The air is heavy with the perfume sweet
From roses in the garden; there's a low
Soft rustle as the trees the zephyrs greet,
While flocks of feathery moths flit to and fro.

On such a night as this the fairy queen
Titania, with her merry band of sprites,
Her court has held within some sylvan scene
Like that which now the luminous firefly lights.

The beauteous moon, fair guardian of sleep,
Will cease ere long her vigils for the night,
And leave bright Lucifer his watch to keep
Within the dotted firmament of light.

But list! From yonder wood,—across the brook
Which glistening moves with dull and noiseless flow,
And winds its way with many a curious crook
Through meads now dusk and fertile fields below;

From out the deepness of yon wooded nook,
Where shadows lurk in darkness brooding still,
There comes a sound no weary heart could brook,
The sad yet gay note of the whippoorwill.

Ah, bird of mystic song! what is thy tale?
Doth joy or sorrow burden all thy theme?
Too oft our founts of pleasure do but fail;
Too often cares prove but a fancied dream.