THE SHIPWRECKED SOLITARY'S SONG

TO THE NIGHT.

THOU, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tow'r high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've pass'd here many a lonely year
And never human voice have heard ;
I've pass'd here many a lonely year
A solitary man.

And I have linger'd in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,
To sing my ev'ning song.

And I have hail'd the grey morn high, On the blue mountain's misty brow, And try to tune my little reed

To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet,
As when upon the ocean shore

I hail'd thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace;

But oh! when darkness robes the heav'ns,
My woes are mix'd with joy.

And then I talk, and often think

Aerial voices answer me;

And oh! I am not then alone

A solitary man.

And when the blust'ring winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,

I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour,
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear

The same dull sounds again.

The deep-ton'd winds, the moaning sea,
The whisp'ring of the boding trees,
The brook's eternal flow, and oft

The Condor's hollow scream.

SONNET.

SWEET to the gay of heart is Summer's smile,
Sweet the wild music of the laughing Spring;
But ah! my soul far other scenes beguile,
Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling.
Is it for me to strike the Idalian string-
Raise the soft music of the warbling wire,
While in my ears the howls of fairies ring,
And melancholy wastes the vital fire?

Away with thoughts like these-To some lone cave Where howls the shrill blast, and where sweeps the wave, Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear,

I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse

Till throug my soul shall Peace her balm infuse
And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear.