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The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery

Collected and Revised by the Author

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EXPRESSIVE NIGHT.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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EXPRESSIVE NIGHT.

“Night unto night showeth knowledge.”—Ps. xix. 2.

“Even the night shall be light about me.”—Ps. cxxxix. 11.

Shades of the soft and stealing night!
More eloquent than joyous light
Is your dark magic, deep and still
Descending over bower and hill.
There is a hush, a holy spell
Breathed o'er dim earth by day's farewell;
A calm more chaste than words define,
A feeling that is half divine.
I love to watch the quiv'ring gleams
Of twilight, when they braid the streams,
Or with slant radiance hue the flowers,
Which close their lids in garden-bowers.
Now, cold and mute Creation grows,
As drops her curtain of repose;
The birds are songless, and the air
Seems hallow'd into silent prayer.
Like Music's death, serene and slow,
Pale twilight yields a pensive glow,
And soon will turret, tree, and spire,
All viewless into gloom retire.

74

Now is the witching time for thought,
Th' elect of heaven have ever sought;
By patriarch, saint, and poet found
With high-breathed instincts to abound.
Angelic choirs may now descend
And with our souls serenely blend,
Hover around where'er we stray,
And thrill, when Thought begins to pray.
Thus, when the fev'rish day was o'er,
Rapt Jesu sought the quiet shore;
Or, on loved Hermon, lone and still,
Breathed, “Oh, my Father! do Thy will.”
So, Christian, while the prayerless throng
Whirl time away in feast and song,
Be thine the pure and placid spell
Which night and nature weave so well.
Creation, providence, and grace,
Let each assume its hallow'd place
In thought serene,—by Heaven bestow'd
On all who trace the narrow road.
Night is the time when buried days
Rise from their tomb, and dim our gaze
With tearful shades, from scenes of yore,
And loving hearts which throb no more.
So rules the Past, that faint and far
As fancy eyes each vestal star,
Young poets dream how there abide
The deathless ones, on earth who died.
Night for the present, too, creates
A charm which oft the mind elates,—
A lone, but still a lofty dream
That men are more than yet they seem.
And on thy future let such hour
Look like a prophet in his power,
Predicting much that God and grace
Reveal to guide our erring race.
Nor be forgot, in heaven Thou art
A Priest, oh Christ! whose boundless heart
Thrills to each cry, which all may dare
To utter forth in fervid prayer.
Now in the hush of holy night
Claim we, blest Lord! the glorious right
Before Thy Throne of grace to bring
All forms of human suffering:—
A Husband to the widow be;
A Sire may orphans find in Thee;
And to Thy sad and stricken poor
Let heaven unfold its waiting door;
And where dejected hearts incline
To question, Lord, the Will divine,
The Blood of sprinkling let it fall,
And while it cleanses, calm them all.
For church, for country, and for child,
A mother dear, or sister mild,
For all true souls and social ties
Now let entreating prayer arise.
And, cradled on maternal breast,
May each sweet babe in slumber rest,
And round pale captives in their cells
Hover dear homes, and native dells.
Morn, noon, and night, O God! are Thine,
In whom their blended charms combine;
Nor is there scene, or spot, or hour
Untouch'd by Thy mysterious power.
Yet, faith and feeling both declare
That hour belongs to Thee and prayer,
When stillness to the soul is given,—
For night, not day, seems nearest heaven.