 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
MIDNIGHT
Oh, clear are thy waters, thou beautiful stream!
And sweet is the sound of thy flowing;
And bright are thy banks in the silver moon-beam,
While the zephyrs of midnight are blowing.
And sweet is the sound of thy flowing;
And bright are thy banks in the silver moon-beam,
While the zephyrs of midnight are blowing.
201
The hawthorn is blooming thy channel along,
And breezes are waving the willow,
And no sound of life but the nightingale's song
Floats over thy murmuring billow.
And breezes are waving the willow,
And no sound of life but the nightingale's song
Floats over thy murmuring billow.
Oh sweet scene of solitude! dearer to me
Than the city's fantastical splendor!
From the haunts of the crowd I have hasten'd to thee,
Nor sigh for the joys I surrender.
Than the city's fantastical splendor!
From the haunts of the crowd I have hasten'd to thee,
Nor sigh for the joys I surrender.
From the noise of the throng, from the mirth of the dance,
What solace can misery borrow?
Can riot the care-wounded bosom entrance,
Or still the pulsations of sorrow?
What solace can misery borrow?
Can riot the care-wounded bosom entrance,
Or still the pulsations of sorrow?
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |