I love the night, the solemn night,
With all her twinkling glittering host;
And, though the sun may be more bright,
I love the mellow moonlight, most.
For then it is I love to dream
And gaze upon the spangled sky;
And feel a happiness supreme,
Nor care to question why?
For then, through all the holy calm,
Thoughts, like soft angel-whispers, fall;
And oft I seem to catch the psalm
Sung by the choir invisible.
Thus then they often seem so near
That but a veil may lie between,
And though their strains we seem to hear,
Yet their bright forms remain unseen.
Unseen, when shall we see those throngs,
Clad in rich robes of dawning light,
Whose voiceless, hidden, heartfelt songs
Vibrate through all the chords of night?
Ah! clearer than they echo here,
Their pure, angelic breathings rise;
And their rare notes, so sweet and clear,
Float o'er the hills of Paradise.
And shall I join that holy choir,
And sing, sometime, that sweet refrain?
Oh! shall I sweep the living lyre,
Whose strains shall never pause again?
O happy angels! Are there heights and depths
The human soul has never thought to reach,
Anthems and harps by angel pinions swept;
Thoughts, breathed in Heaven, too intense for speech?
Lift up your voice, happy angel band,
Sing, 'till the Soul forgets her loss and blight,
Scatter the darkness of this dreary land
'Till a dawn of glory breaks o'er sorrow's night.
