So sober, as may not unseemly suit
With Truth's severer brow; and one withal
So hardy as shall brave the passing wind
Of many winters,-rearing its meek head.
In loveliness, when he who gathered it
Is numbered with the generations gone.
Yet not to me hath God's good providence
Given studious leisure,* or unbroken thought,
Such as he owns,-a meditative man,
Who from the blush of morn to quiet eve
Ponders, or turns the page of wisdom o'er,
Far from the busy crowd's tumultuous din;
From noise and wrangling far, and undisturbed
With Mirth's unholy shouts. For me the day
Hath duties which require the vigorous hand
Of steadfast application, but which leave
No deep improving trace upon the mind.
But be the day another's;-let it pass!

The night's my own!-They cannot steal my night!
When Evening lights her folding-star on high,
I live and breathe, and in the sacred hours

Of quiet and repose, my spirit flies,

Free as the morning, o'er the realms of space,
And mounts the skies, and imps her wing for heaven.

Hence do I love the sober-suited maid;

Hence Night's my friend, my mistress, and my theme,
And she shall aid me now to magnify

The night of ages,-now when the pale ray
Of starlight penetrates the studious gloom,
And at my window seated,-while mankind
Are locked in sleep, I feel the freshening breeze
Of stillness blow, while, in her saddest stole,

* The author was then in an attorney's office.